High Society
by MeadowWard
Summary: Jemma has lived most of her life in love with Fitz, but to him, she fears she is only the chauffeur's niece. When she finally catches his eye, she attracts the ire of his brother, Grant, who worries she will endanger the business deal of a lifetime with her presence. AU Retelling of of "Sabrina" starring Harrison Ford and Julia Ormond. Biospecialist.
1. Chapter 1: The House On Dusoris Lane

A/N: Hello again! Here's something new for everyone, an AU retelling based off the 1995 film Sabrina starring Harrison Ford (which is based off the 1950s film of the same name starring Audrey Hepburn). I highly recommend both movies if you've never seen them, but it's not necessary to have knowledge of the movies before reading this. Features Simmonsward, FitzSkye, some Fitzsimmons, and lots of not-so-subtle hints of Philinda. Basically everything I wanted team Bus to be. As I have a three month old baby, I can't promise how frequent updates will be, but I will not abandon this! Please review if you feel so inclined!

Special thanks to Daisy/stargazerdaisy for reading the first iteration and giving invaluable advice!

 **Chapter 1: The House on Dusoris Lane**

Once upon a time, on the north shore of Long Island, not far from the bright lights of New York city, there was a large house in which lived a family by the name of Ward.

The Ward family was comprised of three members. There was the matriarch, Melinda May Ward, who married the much older John Ward when she was the tender age of twenty-five. It was a union made with some contention, as her first generation Chinese-American parents had very strong opinions on whom their only daughter should marry. Seeing John Ward's love for their daughter soon convinced them, however; his small fortune did not hurt things either. Melinda was naturally graceful, poised, refined. She seemed born for high society. Upon her husband's untimely death during a golf tour of Scotland, she inherited his corporation and despite very little business experience saw growth in her first year as CEO.

Her eldest stepson was named Grant, who with his chiseled features and athletic build appeared at first glance to be suited only for the cover of magazines, and offers were made to that effect beginning his freshman year of high school. This impression he had proven to be incorrect when he graduated from Yale at 19 and, with the business acumen acquired there, turned a hundred-million-dollar family software development business into some "serious money".

Lastly and most of all, there was Leopold, better known by his middle name of Fitz. He was the younger son, as bright as he was boyishly handsome, possessing both a disarming smile and an affinity for electronics. He had attended and graduated with degrees from MIT and CalTech and had spent a semester abroad at Oxford, but had so far put none of his education to career use. He spent many of his days in his quarters, crafting and inventing, and most of his nights in the company of a parade of women whose roster seemed to fluctuate constantly.

The Ward family was known for two things in equal measure. Firstly, for the family business, but secondly and just as much for the parties they gave.

Few people attempted parties to their caliber anymore, and fewer still succeeded in throwing an event that could even be considered comparable; and what better place to throw such parties than on the grounds of their very own mansion, which was so elegant and sprawling it was very nearly a castle.

The Ward estate was well kept. There were servants within the mansion, and servants outside it. Boatmen for the boats, six crews of gardeners who between them cared for the grounds and the solarium; a tree surgeon was kept on retainer. Special attendants were assigned for both the indoor and outdoor tennis courts. The same was done for the indoor pool and the manmade lake. A roster of three mechanics rotated eight hour shifts attending to the fleet of vehicles in the family's possession, and over the garage lived a chauffeur by the name of Coulson, transferred many years ago from California with a Rolls-Royce and later joined by a young niece. The Rolls-Royce was named Lola; the niece was named Jemma.

Unlike her uncle, Jemma was not from California, but from England. Her mother had been a lifelong Londoner, and her father -her uncle's younger brother- had met her during a post-college trip abroad. He had not discovered much about himself, so her father said, but he had discovered his future wife, so the trip could hardly have been a wash. The pair had been dead and Jemma an orphan since she was eleven years old. She had been in her Uncle Phil's care for thirteen years.

She came into his guardianship during his ninth year of employment by the Wards. Now twenty-four, she could still vividly recall her first glimpse of the estate. Visions of Pemberley and Elizabeth Bennett had at once sprung to mind, and she could vividly imagine a Colin Firth emerging from the large stone fountain as they rounded the drive. As she first explored the expertly decorated halls of the mansion, she stumbled across him. Leopold Fitz Ward. Her Darcy.

She sighed and leaned further into the rough tree branch as she recalled her first meeting with Fitz. They were close in age, he being a boy of only twelve when they met, himself mourning the loss of his father (his mother had predeceased him when Fitz was much younger). His stepmother had become his legal guardian, to his disappointment. True, she had been the only mother he'd ever known and had been exceedingly kind to him, but he had hoped his brother would take him on and he could go live in the city, which he had only been allowed to visit on special occasions. The pair bonded over their unfortunate circumstances, but it had been his kind, open face, which emoted genuinely as she relayed her own sad tale, that left a lasting effect; an indelible mark she could not scrub out, even as years passed and their friendship waned.

She sought his face out now, perched as she was in the grand old oak tree that stood at the entrance of the back gardens. Though one man of many in a sea of white jackets, Jemma spotted Fitz quickly, his smile unmistakeable even from a distance. That smile, the smile that filled her nights and occupied her daydreams, was currently directed at an exquisite redhead who danced with him; she was draped in bridal white, and Jemma hoped the choice of dress was not prescient.

"Jemma," a voice from below her called. She glanced downward to see her Uncle Phil standing at the trunk of the tree, looking upwards.

"That explains the disappointment I heard," she said in acknowledgment.

Phil ignored her jibe and said, "Jemma, come down. You need to finish packing."

She heard a hardy, handsome laugh reach her from the dance floor. "Oh. She made him laugh."

Her uncle sighed. "I wonder if Paris is far enough away."

Ah, yes. Paris, Jemma thought sardonically, showing none of the enthusiasm a woman her age and status ought for her impending travels. Mrs. Ward, who bucked social conventions by considering Phil something of a confidant, had arranged an internship for Jemma at a Parisian fashion magazine. Jemma had not read the magazine herself, but apparently it was rather a to-do, if the ecstatic reactions from the other hired help were any indication. All she could think of was how long she would be away from Fitz, a thought she dreaded. "Why pack when I'm only going to come home in a few days time?"

Phil, his patience running thin, sighed. "You will do no such thing when Mrs. Ward has used her connections to get you this trip. Now, please, get out of the tree?" He only needed to repeat himself once and then stalked away toward the garage, knowing Jemma would soon follow; she had never been able to disobey her uncle outright, despite her best rebellious efforts.

She descended the tree expertly, as familiar with its branches as she was her own home, and after a few minutes she was low enough to make the drop to the ground safely. She landed at the base just as Fitz was walking by, and at once her heart leapt at the apparent serendipity of it all.

Her sudden appearance caught Fitz off guard at first, but he soon relaxed, his smile once again returning. "Oh, it's just you Jemma," he said, relieved. "I thought I heard someone." Then he walked away. Even as the distance between them grew, Jemma could clearly see the outline of two champagne glasses underneath the back of his jacket. A bottle of champagne was tucked under his arm.

He was going to the solarium, Jemma thought wistfully. If throwing grand parties was Melinda's tradition, this was Fitz's: he'd become acquainted with a beautiful woman during the revelry, and after much dancing and several drinks, he'd smile that particular smile and whisper certain words in the lucky woman's ear and without fail, the pair would sneak away separately to convene in the solarium. There they would have more privacy, the stars and flowers the only witnesses to their affection. It was all terribly romantic.

"No," Jemma said sadly to his disappearing figure, "it was nobody."

* * *

In a swarm of white jackets and glitzy ball gowns, Grant was the only one in black. Anyone else would have been regarded with disdain, but not he; he got a pass from all of the guests for this perceived faux pax, even if his stepmother did frown upon seeing him.

He had excused himself to the fringe of the party, occupied, as always, by work. Currently, he was on the phone with Robert who managed his stock and investment portfolio, talking him down from buying into a budding television network that aired low-brow fare for the 18-49 demo.

"I don't want to buy anymore networks this year," he reiterated sternly. "There's never anything good on." Not that he had time to watch television. "Look. The offer expired at ten. It's ten-oh-eight, Robert." And with that, he ended the call.

Grant hoped to make it out of the party within the hour, but that was no easy task. He may not have been the host, but he was the evening's financier and every guest knew it. A few acquaintances commented on him leaving so soon, but he dismissed their concerns by saying he wanted to check on the Tokyo market before it closed, and that appeased them.

He had nearly made it to the oak at the entrance when his stepmother cornered him.

"Melinda."

"Grant." She put one perfectly manicured hand on her hip. "Andrea told me you fired her son."

So he had. "He's an idiot." He replied as if that was all the reason needed. In his mind, it was.

"She's one of your father's oldest friends."

"Well, good thing he's not here to see what a disappointment I am. Taking his company global? Increasing our families net worth three-fold in less than fifteen years? I'm truly a failure."

"I wish you wouldn't talk about money at parties. It's vulgar."

"The only reason we can afford parties like this is because of money. And we don't get money by employing imbeciles, no matter how close to the family they are." He turned to go, but Melinda caught him by the crook of his arm.

"You can't go now," she protested. "You'll miss my fireworks."

"I've got to drop something off in Fitz's room. Can you let him know his suspenders are in his closet once he surfaces from this week's 'love of his life'?" He waited until His stepmother nodded, then kissed her cheek, their brief spat forgotten as quickly as it had started. "Goodnight."

* * *

Jemma had packed, albeit haphazardly, and now sat on the edge of her bed beside her open suitcase. In her hand was a half-drunk bottle of cooking sherry. All the good alcohol in the kitchen had gone to the party's bar, so she had had to make do with what she could find when the chef was not looking. It wasn't particularly good for drinking, but it gave her a buzz, and she was after that more than flavor at this point.

From her bed, she saw a light in the mansion turn on. It was the light in Fitz's room. Emboldened by the alcohol, she stood and tiptoed her way to the front door of the tiny apartment she shared with her uncle. Unfortunately, there was only one exit, and to get to it required her to pass the living room where he currently sat reading.

She made a go of it and was, or course, caught.

"Jemma," he chided, "you've spent more of your life in that tree than you have on solid ground." This was all said without having to look up from his novel.

She didn't respond, but paused in the hallway, her body still squared with the door only a few feet away; she did not face him.

"There is more to you than this obsession," he added, turned the page, and said no more.

Jemma did not consider it an obsession. She loved Fitz, had loved him since childhood. He was sown into her soul. Who was she if she did not love him? But she did not respond and quietly left the apartment. She turned her eyes to the main house, to the light in the window that beckoned to her, and walked toward it with purpose.

* * *

He never disparaged his brother's genius. Grant hoped that by being even a little encouraging, it would inspire Fitz to channel his gifts into the family business, but he had only taken the elder brother's kindness as confirmation to continue with his gadgetry. Normally, Grant did not mind. The business was in capable hands (his own) and the constant inventing kept Fitz out of trouble-and by trouble, he meant the tabloids. It was only moments like this, when Grant stubbed his toe over some contraption on the floor of Fitz's walk-in closet, that he was less than impressed with how his little brother chose to spend his days.

"Dammit, Fitz," he muttered, flexing the wounded toe in his shoe.

He heard the click of the door opening. Fitz had finished with the female guest sooner than expected.

"I came here to say goodbye."

It was not Fitz, but a feminine voice that spoke. Grant made a move to exit the closet.

"Don't come out," the voice ordered, though the command was still spoken with a level of timidity. "If you come out, I'll never get through this." He heard the speaker intake a large breath before continuing. "I leave for Paris tomorrow, and I'll be gone a long time. I don't expect you to notice I'm gone; you haven't noticed me while I was here. Not that I'm surprised over that. What is there to notice?" The woman let out a sad chuckle. "But I think I know you better than anyone else, and for what it's worth, just know that someone very far away is thinking of you. So, if there's anything I can ever do for you..." Her voice trailed off, her spiel finished.

Grant stepped out of the closet. He recognized the speaker as the niece of the family's chauffeur. Jemma, her name was. He noted she was a pretty girl, if a little plain, but that could easily be chalked up to the long brown hair that hung flat past her shoulders, or her gray calf-length skirt paired with a simple knit sweater. It was no wonder Fitz never noticed her as she claimed. The girl was attractive, but not glamorous, and unfortunately his brother had the attention span of a goldfish when women were the subject. He needed a little sparkle to keep his interest.

"Could you bring me one of those little Eiffel Tower paper weights?"

What he'd meant as a joke to diffuse an awkward situation for both of them did not land. Instead of laughing, Jemma's hazel eyes widened. The ivory skin of her face flushed pink as she muttered "Oh, God," before fleeing, the pounding of her footsteps down the hall disguised by the boom of fireworks.

She ran as fast as her feet would carry her as the sky seemed to explode above her, thinking and caring not at all whether any party guests witnessed her escape.

* * *

Jemma arrived in Paris on a Sunday. On Monday, she had an interview for an internship at a fashion magazine called Marie Claire. She was only slightly familiar with the publication. She'd studied molecular biophysics and biochemistry at Yale, and fashion magazines hardly fell within the parameters of required reading.

As she waited for her interview, she glanced around the office. It was decorated in a stunning minimal decor and she felt out of place by comparison. She was certain her inexperience showed, literally worn on her very unfashionable blouse sleeve. A long, lithe model stalked past her and she sank back into her chair, wishing to be absorbed into the white leather.

"Jemma?" a heavily accented female voice called before she could succumb to her embarrassment. A woman with short, curly brown hair and kind eyes had beckoned to her with a smile. She stood and went to her.

"Welcome to Paris, Jemma," she said. "My name is Angeline. You speak no French, yes?"

"No."

Angeline brightened. "No?"

"I mean, yes. I mean..." she stumbled over the negative in her head and felt her face go hot with blushing. "Can you repeat the question?"

It soon became clear that this meeting was not so much an interview as it was an introduction. After speaking briefly with Angeline, Jemma was promptly handed over to her assistant, Martine. Unlike her boss, Martine glanced over Jemma and clicked her tongue once in disapproval, but seemed determined to make do with what she was given. Jemma was instantly put to work reorganizing the samples closet, a task that took her the entirety of the day. She was given similar busy work every weekday, doing the more menial tasks Martine considered beneath her.

Three weeks into the internship, Angeline invited Jemma on a walk. They had just hours before completed a photo shoot, and Jemma had been all thumbs during it. She misunderstood Martine at every turn and left a model in a predicament when she accidentally stepped on and ruined her eye contacts. She'd nearly derailed the entire shoot, and attributed it to his inherent gentlemanliness that the photographer did not raise his voice at her in frustration.

While he had withheld, Martine had given her a verbal dressing down that was mostly French, punctuated by the occasional English curse. Jemma, who spoke Mandarin and Spanish but had never imagined needing to know French, had picked up enough of the language by this point to have the good sense to look contrite.

"Don't worry for Martine," Angeline encouraged as they strolled. "I tortured her, and now she tortures you!" This Angeline said with a light laugh, as if the entire situation were humorous. "Work hard, Jemma, and someday you will have someone of your own to torture." It was a strange thing to aspire toward, but Jemma found herself working harder than ever in the days that followed, and by working hard found she had little time to think of Fitz during the day, despite her promise. A promise she had accidentally made to Grant, but a promise nonetheless.

Occupied though her thoughts were during the day, nothing could keep the thoughts at bay at night.

When she had been away for a month, she sent her uncle an email. She told him she was lonely. She told him she felt silly and out of place. She asked to come home. To help her case, she made an effort not to mention Fitz, but his name must have slipped through more than she realized. Uncle Phil responded within the hour.

 _I am glad to hear that the job is going well, although this Martine character concerns me. Angeline sounds very fine, though I expect nothing less from a friend of Mrs. Ward's._

 _You mustn't be so hard on yourself, sweetie. I'm sure that not everyone in Paris thinks you're an idiot. You haven't met them all, for one thing. Please enjoy yourself as much as you can and try not to think about... you-know-who._

She read his reply three times over, disheartened by every word, and did not answer.


	2. Chapter 2: All In The Family

A/N: Thanks for the follows for the last chapter! If you like what you've read, please leave a review! They make me write faster! Once again, special thanks to Daisy/stargazerdaisy for her editing skills and taking the time to make this fic better. You're wonderful, you are!

 **Chapter 2: All In The Family**

It was Melinda's custom to go into the office on Wednesdays. Though Grant ran the company she was still the CEO, if only in title, so every Wednesday she dressed for the office and met Grant in the foyer.

Grant was standing with Fitz, who was wearing his leather jacket for a ride on his motorcycle. He had paused to greet his brother in the foyer and was now animatedly talking about his latest girlfriend of the past few weeks. Melinda knew of her by name only. Skye Johnson, a talented security software developer and I have co-owner with her father of Quake Technologies. She developed the software for the company while her father managed the financials. Fitz had apparently met her at a party and that they hit it off only made sense; she with her expertise in software, and he with his gifting in computer hardware.

"Just make me look good when you meet her," Fitz was saying. Then he grinned. "I mean, I know I look good. But make me sound good."

Grant looked at him blankly.

"Talk about my achievements. Make me sound successful." A non-committal shrug from his elder brother was the response he received. "Lie, okay?"

"Does it speak to your depravity or my own that I'd willingly imperil my soul for the sake of your sex life?" Grant retorted, but it fell on deaf ears. Fitz had noticed his stepmother's approach and greeted her.

"Great dress, Melinda," he said as he followed her and Grant out the front door to the Rolls Royce where Phil stood at attention.

"Consider it progress, Grant," Melinda said. "I can't remember the last time Fitz asked us to meet one of his girlfriends. Although," she turned to her younger stepson, "Maybe you could come into the office and be productive rather than ask your brother to tout your achievements. Just a thought," she suggested before kissing his cheek.

He could not be angry with her. "I think you're doing just fine without me," he replied as she slid into the back of the Rolls Royce. "You guys work Sundays now?"

This naturally gave Grant pause. Looking at his brother with a resigned expression, he said, "It's Wednesday, Fitz."

Grant and Melinda departed for the office soon after. She chose to relax on the ride while Grant used the time to work. His laptop was in his lap and he typed a few lines in a spreadsheet before calling his assistant, who was already at the office.

"Kara, get me Robert, please." Kara obliged and a few seconds later, Grant was connected to the financial planner. "Robert, start buying as much Quake Tech stock as you can. As much as you can," he repeated, when the man tried to state an amount. He didn't love the idea of having stocks abbreviated to "QT" to his name -he wondered if Skye had done that on purpose, even- but he'd overlook that for his reasons . "That's all, Robert." Robert acknowledged his boss' instructions and Grant hung up.

"Did you know Quake Tech is the number one developer of computer security software in the world?" He said to Melinda.

Melinda appeared inscrutable. "I did not know that," she said. It became clear to her that her stepson was formulating a plan. She could practically see the gears in his head turning, but he offered no further insight into what he was thinking. When minutes passed and he said no more, Melinda spoke to her driver.

"Mr. Coulson," she said, "how is our girl doing?" She'd always been terribly fond of Phil's niece.

"She's well, Mrs. Ward," he answered, "Though I think she's beginning to get lonely."

It was an understandable concern. "Well, I'm certain Angeline is taking good care of her."

Grant interjected with interest. "Angeline? Your friend from Marie Claire?"

"The same."

"I thought your niece was studying biochemistry at Yale, Phil." He recalled penning her letter of recommendation to his alma mater, at the behest of his stepmother.

If Phil was shocked the younger Ward remembered (he was), he did not show it. "She is. I mean, she was. She didn't finish her last semester." His grip tightened on the wheel. "She took a break to help me when I was unwell a few years ago."

Grant remembered that period. While waiting to take him home after a late night at the office, Mr. Coulson was injured in a mugging gone awry. Grant had felt extremely guilty and as compensation paid for all of Phil's medical expenses. Their temporary chauffeur was not nearly so amiable as Coulson, but Grant bore it as additional penance. To learn his niece had specifically withdrawn from school due to the incident made Grant feel the guilt anew. "And she has not returned yet?"

"No sir," Phil admitted. "I have asked her to many times. I've even offered to help with tuition, since she's been paying out of the inheritance her parents left her, but she's refused me. She's quite stubborn."

"A family trait, perhaps?" Melinda supposed, her eyes meeting Phil's in the reflection of the rearview mirror. Her typically stern expression softened, and he felt his doing the same.

After a moment, Phil agreed. "Perhaps."

* * *

The Ward family hosted a small dinner for Skye and her father the following Friday. The two of them arrived shortly after six; Cal Johnson in his limo with Skye trailing behind on a motorcycle of her own. Though Melinda wore a dress for the occasion, Skye donned slacks and a pretty but functional blouse that was obscured until she removed her leather jacket.

The three Wards waited on the front steps to greet them. As Skye's bike roared while she put it in park, Grant said to his stepmother, "An unconventional bunch, aren't they?"

She shot him a look. "Don't be intolerant. We're not exactly status quo ourselves." Skye was only a few feet away by that point, so Melinda turned to welcome her. "For once my stepson isn't full of it. You are stunning!" She said with a genuine smile as Skye approached, followed closely by her father.

Skye had previously tried and failed at being demure. Directness was much more her style. "So nice to finally meet you," she said with real excitement and ignored Melinda's extended hand to give her a hug instead.

While the women talked and Fitz looked on, Grant greeted her father, Cal Johnson.

"Cal," he said, shaking his hand.

"Grant," the other man said, and a knowing look passed between them. In a hushed tone, Cal said, "Are we going to pretend that Highware didn't buy a significant amount of Quake Tech stock today?"

Grant's heart leapt to his throat, but his face remained passive, his handshake still firm. "Who's to say it wasn't done to get your attention?"

"Consider it yours then, young man." Then, loud enough to be meant for all nearby ears, Cal announced he was starving and wondered aloud if Melinda would be so kind as to lead the way. She acquiesced, taking him by the arm and leading him inside. Fitz and Skye followed, hand-in-hand. Grant was last.

* * *

Dinner was, all things considered, an uneventful affair. Fitz had experienced all the reasonable amounts of anxiety over the two families meeting, and then some not-so-reasonable, but he was pleased that the evening actually ended up rather dull. Grant and Cal talked business, though they kept their conversation fairly light and non-combative, and Skye and Melinda discussed their experiences with Chinese-American parents, as Skye's mother had been Chinese. Fitz was pleased as punch to just sit quietly and allow the two sides to get familiar, though in his silence may have ingested more brandy than he would normally had he been engaged in conversation.

When dinner had ended, Melinda offered to have coffee and dessert served in the study. Cal agreed to this and naturally Grant did too. The young couple asked to be excused and withdrew to Fitz's quarters. He had the kitchen send up a bottle of wine and more brandy for him, as well as graham crackers, marshmallows, chocolate bars, and skewers.

They toasted the marshmallows over the fireplace in his room. Once alone, Skye grew quiet and pensive.

"Something on your mind," he asked when the silence stretched into minutes.

"Hm? Oh. Yes," Skye answered. "Just thinking about a hacking attempt our IT contractors thwarted today. One of our big clients. Could've been ugly."

He grinned. "Not surprised to hear they were no match for you."

She leaned into his shoulder and withdrew her marshmallow from the open flame. It was slightly charred and he put it on the sandwich of crackers and chocolate for her. "Fitz. You are the best," she said.

He kissed her forehead and handed her the dessert. "It's only a s'more."

"Yes but it's a hell of a s'more."

"Would you say it's on par with thwarting a hacking attempt?"

"Nothing's on par with thwarting a hack attempt," she teased, and they both laughed.

"You're too good to me," he said, still laughing as he made a s'more for himself.

She said nothing until he took a bite. "If that were true, then why don't you marry me?"

He froze. Melted chocolate dripped down his fingers while he remained still. "Okay," he answered after a second. "Why don't I?"

"Don't make fun."

"I'm not making fun," he insisted and put the s'more down on a napkin. "Why don't I?"

"You tell me."

"I can't think of a good reason."

She snorted. "Oh, so romantic! Words every woman is just dying to hear."

"It is when you consider the source," Fitz said, then felt compelled to explain even though doing so exposed the less likable aspect of his personality, one he had inexplicably tried to keep hidden from her since they began dating. It's not that she hadn't known of his reputation, but she seemed to operate under the thinking that it was exaggerated. She was the first in a long time to give him the benefit of the doubt. He didn't want to lose that, yet still heard himself saying, "Before you, I wouldn't have even made a joke about settling down. Not with any of the many women I've dated." He hoped she didn't ask him to quantify "many". "Before you... before you, the thought of marriage would have terrified me. But my pulse is steady and I'm not scared, so I ask you again, Skye: why don't I?"

And that is how Leopold Fitz Ward, part-time inventor and full-time playboy, got engaged.

* * *

They kept their plans to marry a secret for the evening. It was just as well, because for Fitz the bliss was short-lived. The next day, he came storming out of the elevators and through the lobby of Highware, walking with such purpose that no one tried to stop him until he reached Grant's office, and his assistant was forced to play goalie.

"He's in a meeting, hesonlunch-DON'T" he heard Kara scramble to say as he burst through the door.

Grant was seated on the black leather couch. On the coffee table before him pages and pages of notes were spread. His laptop was also opened and next to it stood a half drunk cup of coffee. He was facing the large television screen that occupied most of the opposite. With it, he was video-chatting with Ron Smythe and Ron Irving, two members of the board.

"Ron. Ron." Fitz acknowledged the gentlemen on the call before looking at his brother. "I need to talk to you."

"I'm in a meeting."

"How often do I come here?"

Grant sighed. "Ron? Ron? Please contact Kara to reschedule." He ended the call and gave his brother his attention.

Fitz wasted no time, angrily tossing his smartphone into his brother's lap. On the screen was a headline from New York Times that read: "Highware to merge with Quake Technologies?"

"Care to explain that?" Fitz challenged.

Grant skimmed the article. It was mostly hearsay and hastily drawn conclusions, but it did point out Grant's very recent purchase of Quake Technology stock. "There's nothing to explain."

"So you're not taking advantage of my relationship with Skye to push a merger with Quake Tech?"

"'Take advantage' of you? Who is taking advantage of who? I could burn in hell for the lies I told to make you look good in front of her father," Grant reminded him.

"If I'd known this was your plan-"

"-'Make me look good. Talk about my achievements. Lie, okay?' Those are your words, not mine."

"And I'm grateful, but-"

"- but what, Fitz?"

"I wish you'd told me," he said with a shake of his head. "You have no idea how complicated things have just become."

Grant stood and handed Fitz his phone. "Well, then tell me."

"We're engaged."

Grant was good at reading his co-workers, reading the public, and reading the market, but nothing could have prepared him for that revelation. That, however, was more of a shock knowing Fitz's personal history and less of a blow to his business plans.

"Mazel Tov," he said sarcastically and clapped his brother on the back.

"I don't know what came over me," Fitz continued as he took a seat on the couch. "We were eating s'mores and then all of a sudden I'm an almost-married man. I don't know if I'm ready to take care of a wife, Grant."

"She's a millionaire, Fitz. I doubt she'll be a burden."

"But this merger... What if her father thinks the only reason I'm with her is for their business?" He paused at the thought, then clutched his stomach and groaned. "I don't have the constitution for this."

"What do you want me to do?" Grant asked as he sat beside his brother. "Disqualify myself from a billion-dollar deal because I might have family connections? We aren't the only ones looking to get into bed with QT, and any advantage we can get-"

"'Advantage'?" Fitz interrupted. "This is my life you're talking about."

"And I pay for your life. My life makes your life possible."

"I resent that."

"Me too. You have a closet full of inventions you've never patented. You have degrees in fields I can't name. Your mechanical prowess is unmatched and how do you spend your time? In the company of women you never see more than twice. Now Skye has come along and she's the best thing that's ever happened to you, isn't she?" When his brother didn't answer, Grant shook his shoulder. "Isn't she?"

"What's your point," Fitz spat.

"My point? Damn it, Fitz, you're a grown man. See something through for once."

Silence followed as Fitz considered his brother's advice. "You see the irony, right?You, giving relationship advice, when your idea of a long-term relationship is letting your date get dessert after dinner."

"I don't have time for dessert," Grant said as he picked up his laptop and carried it back to his desk. "I have a company to run."

* * *

Following the fiasco of a photo shoot, Angeline took special care to encourage Jemma frequently. Their walks became a weekly tradition, occasionally ending with cups of tea and pastries, but always filled with therapeutic conversation. Jemma found herself speaking with an honesty she'd never dare use at home.

In addition to Angeline, Jemma found another surprising confidant in Antoine, the photographer whose shoot she'd botched. He had been so forgiving the day of, and a few weeks later asked to take her out for a drink. He leveled his request with a perfect, endearing smile, and she could not say no; nor did she want to.

On one of their walks along the river, Angeline mentioned Antoine. Jemma smiled upon hearing his name.

"I like him. He's a good friend," she stated. "He's funny, and kind, and a good photographer. Did you know he's teaching me photography? He's such a nice man." This was all said in the same tone of voice one might use describing a favorite teacher, and Angeline picked up on it.

"But there is someone in the way, no?" She asked. When Jemma did not answer quickly, she said, "Could it be this Fitz you've casually mentioned, oh, a hundred times or so?"

Even though it was a jibe at her expense, Jemma did not get defensive instantly, like she would have with her uncle. "The thought of him keeps me company."

"Ah, but he's only a thought. He is an illusion, Jemma. Illusions are dangerous," she warned, pausing to lean against the railing of the bridge. "When I arrived from Provence, I was like you; alone and lost and sadder than I'd like to admit. I took long walks, I wrote nonsense in a journal for the better part of a year." She turned to Jemma. "I found myself in Paris."

Jemma did not meet her eyes but stared straight ahead over the water. "It sounds lovely," she whispered, only because she didn't know what else to say.

"It was." Then, Angeline slid her hand over Jemma's in a friendly gesture of comfort and companionship. "I know you are embarrassed by your loneliness, Jemma, but don't be. You are on a long walk with yourself and will reach your destination soon enough."

* * *

Melinda informed Phil of Fitz's engagement personally, well aware of the torch Jemma had carried for Fitz since childhood. She would not have been adverse to her stepson pursuing a relationship with the chauffeur's niece, but he'd never reciprocated her feelings. It was a moot point now and her primary concern was keeping Jemma's heart from breaking as best she could.

They stood in her home office, discussing their young relatives in hushed tones. "What will you tell her?" Melinda asked.

Phil looked truly lost. "I don't know. 'Jemma, your life is a dream and now it is over'?" He laughed, but it was joyless. "I'm afraid this will crush her, Melinda."

She put a consoling hand on his shoulder. "I'll write to her if you'd prefer."

"No. I'm her uncle. It should come from me." Then he said, "But will you help?"

"Of course."

Together, they composed an email. It read:

 _Dear Jemma,_

 _What I am about to tell you may come as a shock, but I truly believe it may be for the best. I know how strongly you have felt about Fitz all these years. That in mind, it breaks my heart to tell you that he is now engaged. The woman he's marrying is lovely, kind, and humorous. In another life, I'd like to believe you'd be friends. In another life._

 _I'm sure you're heartbroken, but don't let this cause you to give up on love, my darling. You have so very much of it to give, and whomever receives your heart for good will be a lucky man indeed._

 _All my love,_

 _Uncle Phil_


	3. Chapter 3: Home Again, Home Again

**A/N:** Been a bit since I've updated, so let's just get right to it, shall we? Notes at the end!

 **Chapter 3: Home Again, Home Again**

Engaged.

The news made the world come crashing down on her. No, it made the room spin around her. No, time came to a standstill. Or perhaps it was all three. Yes, she thought, as she burrowed further under her bedcovers. All three.

Engaged.

The word echoed in Jemma's head like a gunshot. The pain in her heart spread through her body as if carried in her blood, to the very edge of her fingertips until her entire frame was huddled in a ball to ward off the massive ache the revelation had invoked.

A knock at the door made her peek out from beneath the duvet. When she did not answer, Antoine called to her from the other side. With some reluctance, she freed herself from the bedclothes and answered the door.

He was carrying a box of pastries and a cup of coffee for her. "Angeline mentioned you were unwell," he said.

She leaned into the doorframe, "You could say that."

He offered her the cup and she took it with a muttered, "Thank you".

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She took the pastries from him as well, then without a word pulled him inside her flat. After setting both the coffee and the pastries on the kitchen counter, she led him to the bedroom and pulled him onto the mattress. Why not, she figured as she kissed him. They'd held hands once and she liked the way his dark skin had contrasted hers when their fingers were laced together. Surely she would like the look if more than their hands were entwined. He was handsome in his way, all warm and smoldering, no sign of the icy blue that hurt her heart to think about. Her hands went to unbutton Antoine's shirt.

His gentle but firm grip on her wrists was the only thing that stopped her. Pulling his lips away from hers, he said, "I am in Paris but you are somewhere else." She held his gaze defiantly, but did not confirm or deny the accusation. He hovered over her, his face inches from hers, and she suddenly felt very, very small. "What hurts you," he began again, "cannot be fixed in bed. It must be fixed here." He tapped a finger to her heart, "And here," he pointed to her forehead, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as he did. Then, Antoine kissed the tip of her nose and withdrew from her without another word. A few seconds later, she heard the sound of the door clicking closed behind him.

She was alone and so she cried. She cried tears for the love she'd harbored since her youth, no matter how foolishly it was done. She cried for herself, for being so silly as to imagine a future that she was now bidding goodbye, for it would never come to pass. She cried the night through, and when morning arrived as a pale yellow glow through the slats of the blinds, she wiped her face on her sleeve and sat up. She was physically exhausted, and though her heart felt very raw, it also had the strangest inkling of hope being kindled within.

She had lived through worse heartbreaks, she reminded herself. She survived her parents dying, survived leaving her home country. She could certainly survive losing Fitz, once and for all. Couldn't she?

She had no choice but to try.

* * *

What remained of her internship passed in a blur. Angeline never again had to worry about Jemma calling in "sick", and neither Jemma nor Angeline ever mentioned Fitz again. Despite Jemma's desperate and misguided effort to get Antoine in her bed, he refused to allow things to get awkward, happily resuming his role as one of her dearest friends. Even Martine warmed up to Jemma as her departure drew closer, though her version of "warming up" just meant she relayed orders in a nicer tone, and still without adding "please".

Her last week in Paris, Antoine gifted her a camera and Angeline treated her to a proper makeover. Her hair, which had reached the middle of her back for as long as she could remember, was cut short enough to brush her shoulders. Seeing all of the dark waves fall away made Jemma feel a thousand pounds lighter. Angeline then offered a quick lesson on makeup and gave her a matte red Lancôme lipstick that made her look positively vampy. When both the hairstylist and Angeline had finished, Jemma looked in the mirror. She was barely recognizable, and yet she felt like she had never looked more like herself. Like the true Jemma had emerged at last.

"Hello," she said to her reflection. Seeing her own lips painted red was a sight she hoped to never get over.

Three days before her departure, she went to the bridge where she and Angeline had first walked. Taking a seat on a wrought-iron bench nearby, she took out her pen and a postcard she had purchased just for this reason, and began to write her uncle a letter.

 _Dear Uncle Phil,_

 _I'm writing you from beside my favorite place in the world, three days before I come home. I may even be back in the states before this even reaches you._

 _Amazing. It's gone by so quickly, and yet I feel as though I've always been here. How was I ever so content to live within my tiny sphere when all the world awaits? Thank you, Uncle, for convincing me to leap from the branch. I think I've at last found my wings._

 _All my love,_

 _Jemma_

* * *

There was an unmistakeable yapping sound that could be heard as Grant passed the large oak that marked the entrance to the gardens. As he crossed the lawn, he noticed Rose -the head maid- was unwittingly causing quite a scene as she chased a young, yippy King spaniel that had gotten off its leash. As she passed him, she paused long enough to curtsey in acknowledgment of him before continuing the chase.

Fitz was watching the excitement from the comfort of the large white dining tent that had been erected first. He was nursing a beer and produced a fresh one from a cooler beside his folding chair, handing it to Grant once he got close enough.

"Working hard I see."

"Melinda wanted me to oversee the start of the party set up," Fitz explained.

"And the dog?" As if to punctuate his question, the canine chose that moment to howl.

"A gift from Skye," was Fitz's answer. "She's giving a TED talk tonight so she's missing Melinda's party. The dog is a combination birthday-slash-apology present."

"Hate to see what she'll give to apologize for the dog," Grant joked and took a sip of his beer. "What did you end up getting Melinda?"

"A little Picasso. I'm having it wrapped in the city."

"Jeez. What did that cost me?"

Fitz shrugged. Then, after downing the rest of his beer, he stood. "I gotta go pick up Mel's present. Be back in time for the party." He patted his brother's shoulder as he walked by him.

Fitz was surprised to see Phil in the garage when he went to grab his car. "Doesn't Jemma come back today, Coulson?" he asked.

Phil nodded. "Yes. I expect her any time, but she doesn't want me picking her up. Says she wants to surprise me."

"That's nice," Fitz replied, though he sounded vaguely disinterested. "I won't ask you to drive me into town then. Mind if I take the 'vette?" He ran one hand over the hood of the vintage red Corvette.

"Keys are in the glove compartment."

It was all the permission he needed.

* * *

Jemma had departed America as a quiet mouse. Not only was she part of the crowd, just one face imperceptible from the others, she was absorbed by the crowd, completely invisible. This was not so now.

Perhaps it was the clothes. She could hardly have been in the world's fashion capital and not learned how to put an outfit together. Or was it the makeup? She'd been blessed with good skin, but now she knew how to highlight her features. The haircut definitely made a difference in how she carried herself and as an added bonus showed off her slender, elegant neck she'd once overheard Antoine describe as "délicieuse".

Whatever the cause was, it put confidence in her step. Now, rather than carried by the flow of the crowd, it seemed to part for her, giving her a wide berth as she maneuvered through the airport terminal, her wheeled suitcase trailing behind her.

From the airport, she took a tram from LaGuardia to the nearby Marriott associated with the airport. From there, she planned to hail a cab to take her home. She was just beginning to grouse over what the trip would cost in cab fare when she saw him. Fitz. Her breath caught in her chest..

He was only a few feet away from her, jangling a set of keys in his hand, a small, thin square package tucked under his left arm. He glanced at her as he passed, then looked again, longer the second time.

"Hi," she stammered.

He grinned that cheeky, knee-melting grin. "Hi."

"How are you?"

"Good." He paused, still grinning. "How are you?"

"Honestly, a little shocked to see you here! It's all so... serendipitous."

"Well, you know me... right?"

Jemma laughed and nodded once.

"Do you need a ride?" He asked.

"Are you on your way home?"

"...Yes?"

"Well, how convenient." She said and promptly handed him her bag. It was a novel image, Jemma thought, and quite ballsy on her part. Allowing one of the masters of the house to assist the help with their luggage? Talk about upending social norms.

He had taken the red Corvette into town for his excursion, which she loved. The Corvette was her favorite. As she sat in the passenger seat, she ran a hand over the cream leather of the dash. "I've always loved this car," she said.

"Yeah. She's a beauty, for certain," he agreed.

Jemma chuckled to herself. "You don't recognize me, do you?"

"What? Sure I do. But, um... can you tell me your address again?"

Little did he know that he had just inadvertently confirmed how clueless he was. She swallowed a laugh, managing to say, "Dusoris Lane."

"Th-that's my street."

"You don't say," she teased, then followed it with, "You really have no idea who I am?"

"Sure I do... you're my neighbor from Dusoris Lane."

She laughed. "And you're Fitz."

"Yes, the lesser Ward."

"I wouldn't say lesser."

He shot her a meaningful glance. "I swore I knew all the pretty girls on the north shore."

She chuckled. "I swore you took in a fair bit more territory than that."

"Ouch."

"Am I wrong?"

"Not at all. But it stings to think my reputation precedes me so."

"I wouldn't know about your reputation."

"No?"

"No. Not when I've known you for years. Isn't gossiping about reputation reserved for strangers and the jealous?"

They passed the car ride just this way, with Fitz trying to get her to reveal her identity and Jemma teasingly rebuffing him.

Five minutes out from the Ward estate, Jemma broached the subject that so far Fitz had neglected. "I hear you're engaged to be married."

A muscle in his cheek twitched, but he played it off by smirking. "I am. But we are both very, very busy people. It's been hard to set a date."

"Ah," she said and nodded in understanding. "She is a jet setter, then?"

"By way of her job. She owns Quake Technologies."

"Sounds like a smart cookie."

Fitz deflected by turning the conversation by pointing out the estate's driveway.

"Would you like to come in for a drink?"

"I would like that very much, thank you."

As they rounded the fountain, Jemma remarked on the bustle of people and the many delivery trucks that cluttered the drive. "Looks like a party," she said as Fitz parked.

"My stepmother's birthday party is tomorrow," Fitz explained as he hurried to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for her. He offered her his hand to help her out, then retrieved her luggage from the trunk.

"Listen," he began as he handed her the handle to her suitcase. "The party is tomorrow night at nine o'clock. My fiancée is in California for the week and I hate going stag. Will you please come?"

Jemma felt her face grow warm, but she kept her composure, if only barely. "Do you really want me to?"

"On one condition: will you please tell me who you are?"

She couldn't help but smile. She opened her mouth to speak just as Grant walked up to them.

"Hello Jemma," he said to her, though his eyes were locked onto his mobile phone. "Just back from Paris?"

She tore her eyes away from Fitz, who was looking more stunned by the second. "Hello, Grant. Yes, just this morning."

"Jemma?" Fitz sputtered in disbelief.

"Wonderful. You look all grown up," Grant said and slid his phone into his pocket. "Has your uncle seen you yet?"

"Jemma?" Again, this came from Fitz.

"No, not yet," she admitted, feeling a bit sheepish.

"Jemma?!" A third time.

"Why does he keep saying that?" Grant asked.

"I need to go find my uncle," Jemma said suddenly and began to stalk off. Over her shoulder she called, "I'll get my bags later." When Fitz tried to call her back, she interrupted with, "Thanks for the ride."

Once she was gone, Fitz appeared rather crestfallen. Grant knew what that look meant and put a staying hand to his brother's chest just as he tried to take a step in the direction of the garage.

"No, Fitz."

"I just-"

"No."

* * *

"For going out," Jemma said as she draped a silk tie over Phil's left shoulder. "For staying in," and she pressed a bottle of champagne into his right hand. Last, she placed a black beret on top of his thinning hair.

"For laughs!"

And laugh he did as he considered his presents. "It's better than Christmas," he said as he removed the beret and set the tie aside. He put the champagne in the freezer, hoping to get it chilled quickly so he and Jemma could toast her return in a few minutes.

She had her back turned to him and was removing a gown from a garment bag. It was a lovely, night blue satin dress from three seasons ago and had been kept in the back of the samples closet collecting dust. Angeline had let her buy it for a steal. The bodice and skirt were a little wrinkled. "Oh I hope this shakes out by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Melinda- I mean, Mrs. Ward's birthday party," Phil informed her.

"I know." Jemma held the dress against her body, already planning how to do her hair and makeup for the evening. "I've been invited."

"By whom?"

"Fitz," she said, and her pulse fluttered in her veins when she said his name, determinations to forget him be damned. "Of course he didn't recognize me when he invited me, but that's what he gets for flirting when engaged."

"And now that he knows it's you?"

She considered it. "I'm still invited. I think."

"You think?" He sighed. "Oh, Jemma."

She draped the dress over the back of the couch and looked at her uncle with large, pleading eyes.

"Uncle Phil, please?" She wasn't asking for his permission, per se, but she preferred to do things knowing she had at least his approval. "I promised myself I would go one day. Hundreds of times, thousands of times, always in that tree, and now I'm invited."

There were few things he had ever been able to refuse Jemma, and though he worried attending the party on Fitz's arm would reopen the wound, he did not have it in him to contradict her wishes. Not when she looked so happy.

* * *

She looked radiant in her navy blue dress, her hair curled and pinned back on one side, her lips a dramatic burgundy shade. Phil snapped a few photos of her with his cell phone's camera.

"One last touch," he said, then went to the small safe in his closet and withdrew a black velvet box. He opened it to reveal a slender white gold chain. Suspended from it was a dainty diamond pendant. "It was your grandmother's. I was supposed to save it for my future wife, but since that never happened... It's meant to be worn, Jemma. Would you like to?"

She nodded and allowed him to place the necklace on her. "It's lovely. I promise I'll return it as soon as the night is over."

"No rush. It's doubtful I will ever find someone to give it to."

"Don't say that, Uncle Phil," Jemma said, touching his arm. "Never count yourself out." She asked him how she looked one last time, and one last time he told her she was beautiful.

He bade her goodbye from the front door of their home, watching as she crossed from the garage, across the circular drive, to the lighted stone path that led to the garden. She paused for a moment by the tall oak tree, pressing a hand to the rough bark of the trunk. Then, when it seemed she had gathered herself, she entered the party and disappeared from his view.

 **A/N:** Many thanks to Daisy/stargazerdaisy for editing this. Thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, subscribed, left kudos, or reviewed. Please let me know what you think of this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4: The Sharp Flute

**A/N:** This chapter features one of my favorite scenes from the movie. I'd love to hear your guesses as to which scene that is! The song featured is "I Can Let Go Now" by Nathan East feat. Sara Bareilles. I recommend listening to it at some point as it sets the mood of the party, plus it's just a pretty song anyway. Special thanks to Stargazerdaisy/Daisy for her editing skills, like always! If you're into Skyeward as well (like I am), check out her fic "All I Think About Is You" on AO3. Thanks for reading and please review!

 **Chapter 4: The Sharp Flute**

It was everything she imagined it would be. There was the tinkling sound of fine stemware being passed between hands, the din of conversation, murmurs that blended into indecipherable syllables against the sound of music. The Jazz ensemble was playing a soft, mid-tempo melody. The women were elegantly dressed, draped in designers she recognized from her time in Paris. She spotted three Elie Saab gowns in the first five minutes. The dress code alternated every year between black tie and white tie and this year most of the men wore black tuxes with black ties. Fitz was the only one in a white jacket, and she spotted him at once.

He was standing near an ice sculpture of the Venus (Melinda's party taste bordered on gaudy but never reached tacky). He was engaged with several gentleman around his age when he noticed her. Instantly, he broke into a smile and excused himself, closing the space between them with deliberate steps.

"Hello," she said first.

His reply was less composed. "Wow," Fitz breathed, following it with, "You look beautiful."

"So do you. Look good, I mean."

He extended his arm to her then, "Shall we?"

She looped her arm through his. "We shall."

"Wonderful party, Melinda," Cal said as he snagged a glass of champagne off a passing waiter's tray. "You've outdone yourself in every aspect." He and Grant had been discussing business when Melinda approached, so it was good sense on Cal's part to change the subject. Melinda despised business talk at parties, though she was wise to the fact that half of her attendees used the gathering as an excuse to network.

She smiled her thanks. "Fitz tells me the wedding planning is coming along nicely."

"I assume so," Cal agreed. "If the bills rolling my way are any indication, it will be quite the affair."

"I believe I overheard Skye describe it as, 'lavish but tasteful'," Grant said.

"Personally, I'd call it 'expensive'." Cal joked, then took a sip of his champagne. As he lowered his glass, his demeanor changed, eyes narrowed as he gazed toward some offense he'd not yet shared with the other two. "Who is that," he asked and motioned toward the dance floor. There at the center, swaying arm in arm and standing conspicuously close to one another, were Fitz and Jemma.

"Why, that's... oh my." Melinda stammered. "That's Jemma! Oh, she's known Fitz since she was a child."

"She didn't have that dress when she was a child," Grant groused.

Melinda shot him a look as Cal began to go red. "They're practically siblings, those two," she said.

"I have siblings, and we didn't dance like that," Cal retorted, threw back the rest of his champagne, and excused himself from the Wards.

The moment he was out of earshot, Melinda grabbed Grant by the wrist. "We have to fix this," she whispered. He agreed, and they quickly stalked to the middle of the dance floor where the pair were still swaying gently.

"Jemma! How nice to see you home!" Melinda exclaimed, breaking their embrace to hug her enthusiastically. While she engaged Jemma in quick conversation, wanting to hear all about France, how she liked working at _Marie Claire_ , and so on Grant pulled Fitz aside.

"What are you doing?" he asked sternly.

Fitz appeared confused. "I'm just dancing with a friend."

The older Ward didn't buy it. "Your 'dancing with a friend' has attracted the attention of your future father in law. I suggest you put a stop to it before he calls your fiancée."

"Don't be ridiculous," Fitz said with a roll of his eyes. "I've known Jemma for years."

"And she's carried a torch for you through all of them. If you think what you're doing is innocent, let me assure you: it isn't." Then, he patted Fitz's shoulder and pasted on a smile for the benefit of the other partygoers. "You're a grown man so I can't tell you what to do, but for once please care about the appearance of things, would you?"

Melinda was wrapping up her conversation with Jemma when Grant approached them. "That's quite a dress, Jemma. You are truly the belle of the ball."

She appeared bashful and he caught a glimpse of the girl he'd encountered in Fitz's room. Had it really only been one year? "Thank you," she said softly.

Melinda laughed. "Grant, I think you've embarrassed our girl."

"Oh, no. Not at all," Jemma tried to say.

"I meant no offense," Grant said, hoping to put her at ease. Then, as a means of breaking up Fitz and Jemma for at least a few minutes more, he asked her to dance. Before she could answer, Fitz interrupted.

"I believe she is with me," he said, and she smiled gratefully when he once more took her by the hand. He led her to the opposite side of the dance floor, looking back at his family only once to shoot Grant a defiant glare.

They had been dancing for hours, stopping only for sips of champagne or to nibble on any number of the appetizers being carried around by waiters. She expected to feel tired, but Jemma wasn't. She felt rejuvenated, both by Fitz's company and by the party itself; a modern-day Cinderella.

Guests had slowly begun to leave, but the two of them danced on. "This night has been magical," she confided to Fitz as they swayed.

"You're telling me," he said, holding her hand a little tighter. "I can't believe it. I've known you for years and yet it feels like I'm only now finally seeing you." She blushed and he grinned. "And then I get a glimpse of the Jemma I first met, like just then when you blushed. Perhaps I know you better than I thought." He looked away for a second, catching a few stares from the other partygoers when he did. "I just wish there was somewhere we could go to be alone."

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "The solarium? And you can bring champagne? Sneak two glasses in your pocket?"

"You have been paying attention, haven't you?"

She smiled shyly. "And the band can play 'I Can Let Go Now'."

"I wouldn't have them play anything else." Then, he kissed her hand and excused himself, no doubt to go make the arrangements they discussed.

This couldn't be real. Surely she was dreaming because in what universe would Leopold Fitz Ward agree to meet her in the solarium? "And then I'll wake up," Jemma said to no one.

Fitz was standing at one of the bars. Even if he hadn't seen him sneak two glasses into his pants pockets, Grant knew what that meant.

At this point in the evening, Melinda had already retired to her suite, but she would still be awake for another hour or two. Plenty of time to handle a family emergency.

"Come on," Grant said as he approached his younger brother just as Fitz picked up a bottle of champagne. "We're going to see Melinda."

"Not me, man. I'm meeting someone."

"You're damn right you are." Grant took him firmly by the shoulder and steered him towards the house. "You're going to see our stepmother."

As expected, Melinda was still up and had not yet changed out of her evening gown. She took one look at her sons when they entered and her eyes narrowed at the first glimpse of Fitz holding a champagne bottle. She too knew what he had planned.

"Leopold Fitz Ward." She knew just how to use his full name in a way that, even as an adult, still struck an icy shoot of fear through his heart. "What on earth do you think you're doing?" Before he could answer, she continued to accuse. "You are hustling the chauffeur's niece in front of your future father-in-law!"

"I wouldn't call it hustling," he finally got to say. "I would say it's two old friends having a drink and dancing."

Melinda looked to Grant. "Do I look stupid? I've never thought of myself as stupid, but maybe I am."

"Melinda-"

"- Don't, Fitz. Now listen, I couldn't love you more if you were my own child, but if you screw up what you have with Skye by resuming your former antics, I swear I'll kill you." Neither of them doubted she could do it and her tone left no room for argument.

"Look, I know you're angry," he said to Melinda, then looked at Grant, "and I can never quite tell what _you_ are, but I didn't plan this. Jemma's so... so... God, she's something else."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." With a shake of her head, Melinda lowered herself into a chair and put one hand on her forehead.

"The last time you found 'something else' it cost the family half a mil." Grant said. "Jemma has watched you from a tree all of her life. She knows what's coming if you meet her in the solarium. Trips to Martha's Vineyard, couture, jewelry, dinners in the city, tickets to Broadway shows. A week of that and she'd fall for Donald Trump."

"All I said was I'm feeling things. I never said I'd act on my feelings."

"When have you never acted on your feelings?"

"That's not fair," Fitz said, glaring at his brother as he made to push past him to leave the room.

Grant stopped him. "Fitz. Sit down. We aren't finished." He made a second attempt but was no match for Grant, who had towered over his younger brother his entire life. "Sit."

Seeing he would get nowhere, Fitz finally complied.

There was a crunching, shattering sound as he plopped down into a chair, followed by him crying out loudly.

"What happened?" Melinda cried, quickly rising to her feet and running to him.

"I sat on the glasses!"

In the heat of their argument, both Grant and Fitz had forgotten the glasses in his back pocket. Grant had been trying all night to get him to see how his choices would bite him in the ass, but not even he had anticipated events taking such a literal turn.

"Well, I can't say it doesn't serve you right." she scolded.

"I'm bleeding!" Fitz said with an agonized whimper. "Can't we talk about this later?"

"Can you stand?" He could not.

Once it became clear Fitz's injuries were substantial, the elder Ward sprang to control the situation. "Just stay calm," he ordered Fitz. "Melinda, Dr. Robbins should still be here. He's been frequenting the shrimp bar all night. Go get him. Call 911 if you have to." She left at once. When she was gone, Fitz spoke, his voice strained.

"Jemma. She's waiting for me."

He could just leave her, Grant dared to consider. He could just let her wait alone in the solarium until she realized no one was coming, but he knew Jemma deserved better than being left with no answers. That, and she had inadvertently created a problem for his family and his business, a problem he trusted no one else to rectify.

"Don't worry," he assured Fitz. "I'll handle it."

Fitz had not yet arrived, but Jemma refused to dwell on it. The evening had been something straight out of a dream; her dreams, to be exact. It was no hardship to wait a little longer for Fitz to join her.

While she waited, she strolled quietly through the solarium, looking over the blooms and foliage. She was studying an orchid when she heard the glass door open. Turning, she felt her heart sink when she saw it was not Fitz, but Grant.

"I get that a lot," he said drily, seeing her expression had changed.

"Sorry," she replied, "I was just expecting someone else."

Grant nodded. "I know. I'm here with a message from Fitz. He's not coming."

She felt her demeanor change, going from hopeful to sad at once. "He's not?"

"He's had a bit of an accident; sat on a champagne flute."

"Will he be all right?"

"He's probably headed to the emergency room. It was a sharp flute." Jemma jumped a little when Grant uncorked a bottle of champagne. She hadn't noticed he'd been carrying it. He smirked. "That's a little pun. 'Sharp flute'."

"Oh."

He poured the champagne, handing her a glass first, and then raised his glass to her in a silent toast. Jemma took a tentative sip, then asked, "They've sent you to deal with me, haven't they?"

"Who's 'they', I wonder?"

"Like the family lawyer in a romance gets sent to the love interest well below her beloved's station. The waitress, or the showgirl." She smiled sadly. "Or the chauffeur's niece."

"Well, I'm no lawyer." he said.

"But you are here to make sure I stay out of the way, aren't you?" Another sip of her champagne. "At this point the lawyer would offer her a hundred thousand dollars. 'No' she'd say. 'One hundred-fifty thousand dollars'."

"Two hundred thousand," Grant offered.

Jemma stopped. "No."

"A million." Now he had her attention. "No self-respecting 'lawyer' would offer less."

She set her glass aside, placing it on the rim of a potted fern. "No self-respecting 'waitress' would take it."

He nodded in approval. "Good girl."

"I've loved him all my life."

"I know."

"I thought I was over him."

"I'm sure you did."

"And because of my lot in life, you disapprove?" she challenged.

"It's 2016, Jemma." he said frankly. "We don't exactly have a caste system any longer, and I am not so blind as to not see that you are exquisite. It's my brother I'm taking issue with. My imbecilic, very engaged brother."

Just then, familiar music reached them, though hard to make out the words from inside the solarium. It was 'I Can Let Go Now'. "They played this song the night before I left for Paris," Jemma said, her voice wistful.

"They often do." Grant extended a hand towards her. "Shall we?"

After a pause, she took his hand with reluctance and he gently pulled her toward him with surprising grace.

"I never figured you for a dancer," she noted.

"I can't get enough of it. They call me 'Bojangles' at the office," he was teasing her, but his voice and face remained stoic. "Why not?"

She shrugged as the began to revolve in a slow, small circle. "Dancing doesn't fit the Grant Ward perception most people have. Two left feet easily matches the 'tin man with no heart' image."

"Ouch." He smiled at her, and she noted for the first time that when he smiled, even sardonically as he was now, his face was much more pleasant. True, she'd always found him to be handsome, but in an inaccessible, standoffish way. He seemed to possess none of the ease or openness of his younger brother

"Is it impossible that I'd want to dance with the prettiest girl at the party?" He asked, unaware of her thoughts.

"Thank you," Jemma replied. "And yes, it is impossible."

"I see," he said with a nod, and a moment of silence passed between them. During it, Grant seemed to watch her closely. She felt her cheeks grow warm under his wordless appraisal, but she met his stare, defying every instinct of hers that said to look away. If this was a test, she would pass it. She would not cow to him.

Then, at a second glance, she noticed his eyes held none of the swagger or determination he'd harbored when he walked into the room. There was something else, but before she could label it, he looked away, dropped her hand and removed his other from her waist, then spoke.

"You can see Fitz tomorrow." He decided, then hastily picked up his glass, drained its contents, and excused himself.

Jemma was once again alone in the solarium, the familiar song still filling the room as her emotions roiled within her tumultuously. She felt so many things for Fitz in that moment, love and worry chief among them. And then, to her surprise, she felt something for Grant. Concern, maybe. Confusion? Definitely curiosity.

She was still trying to catalogue her feelings when she returned home and slipped out of her gown, like Cinderella returning from the ball. As she lay in bed and closed her eyes, she saw two faces in her mind: Fitz, perhaps more handsome in her mind's eye than the real thing; and the new addition of Grant, which came to her unbidden but not entirely unwanted.

Fitz would be fine in a few days time, though in a considerable amount of pain for the first two days. The wounds were mostly superficial, easily remedied by stitches and sleeping ass-up for the next few weeks. Grant was pleased to hear his brother was both okay and bedridden. Jemma was not wrong when she accused Grant of trying to "deal" with her, but as she dismissed his offers of money, he would have to get more creative. Fitz being confined to bed allowed him room to maneuver.

Once Fitz was home and in bed, Grant placed a call to Dr. Robbins. He explained how his brother could not handle pain and wondered what could be given to keep him most comfortable. Basically, he was willing to tell any lie he had to to make sure his brother would be doped up so much he couldn't woo Jemma. Grant was not so naive to think a few lacerations would stop his brother's charm. He needed to be incapacitated. Fortunately, Dr. Robbins was happy to accommodate and promised to hand deliver the drugs himself the next morning.

"Have they figured out what happened yet?" Dr. Robbins asked.

He was loathe to share that with Robbins, knowing the follow up question would undoubtedly ask why Fitz had glasses in his pocket, So he just said, "No clue. Melinda thinks one of the help left glasses on the chair."

"Jeesh. Think he'll sue?"

"He's not going to sue his own stepmother, Robbins."

"Why not? You would."

 _Tin man with no heart_. Jemma's words echoed in his mind. "Well, he's not me," he replied, then followed it by brusquely bidding Dr. Robbins goodnight.

Grant retired to his old bedroom and poured himself a glass of whiskey. After taking a sip, he stepped onto the private balcony. Though it was the middle of the night, the weather was still warm. A gentle breeze greeted him when he opened the balcony doors. The sky above was clear and starry. If he looked to his right, he could see the caterers cleaning up the remains of the merriment. If he looked to his left, he could see the garage. Instinctively, his gaze travelled to the apartment above it. The curtains were drawn and no light appeared in any window. For the first time, he noticed the apartment seemed quite small from the outside, hardly big enough for one person let alone two. He wondered which window belonged to Jemma.

She had stunned them all that evening. He had meant it when he called her the belle of the ball. Grant had always thought she was pretty, though he never noticed it in anything more than a passing way. But what little about her that could've been plain had fallen away while in France. She seemed to possess a confidence that she had not before known. It explained why she could look him in the eye when she spoke to him now, when he distinctly remembered her avoiding his direct gaze from the day she first came to Dusoris Lane. Now, she had not just met his eyes, but every word from her was pointed. Not mean, not in the slightest, but she made it clear she was no pushover.

This would not be as easy as he hoped, he thought, as he began to plan.

After scheduling an around the clock nurse for his brother -at one in the morning, no less; sometimes it surprised even him what money could buy- Grant put in a call to his assistant.

"Kara Palamas," she answered, her words slurred.

"God, Palamas, are you drunk?"

"I'm asleep, sir."

"Oh." Sometimes he forgot that not everyone kept his odd hours. He was both a night owl and an early bird. "Listen, I need to be in Long Island for the next few days. Clear my entire schedule and have the plane on standby for 9 am tomorrow." Then he added, "Set up the cottage in Martha's Vineyard. Flowers, cheese plates, the works. Or whatever 'the works are'. Ask Fitz's assistant." It was all that woman ever did.

 _Trips to Martha's Vineyard, couture, jewelry, dinners in the city, tickets to Broadway shows. A week of that and she'd fall for Donald Trump._

It was Fitz's own proven method of making a woman head-over-heels in love, and it had not yet failed his younger brother. Grant could only hope to have the same luck.


	5. Chapter 5: Martha's Vineyard

**Chapter 5: Martha's Vineyard**

The next morning, Grant went to visit his stepmother, and was not greeted with her usual, "Hello". Instead, she asked, "You're not going to work like that, are you?"

For a person who was usually stoic, Grant was astonished at the amount of playful judgment in his stepmother's tone when she spotted his casual attire- dark jeans and a pullover, though the collar of a button-down shirt showed through the V of the sweater.

"Thought I might take the day off," he stated, making Melinda freeze mid-yoga pose. Her personal trainer, who had been trying his best to remain passive, could not wipe the surprised expression from his face before Grant caught it. I

"Can we have a second?" Grant said to him, lest he remain a captive audience. The trainer excused himself. Melinda reached for a towel and dabbed at the sweat on her neck before sitting on the floor and continuing to stretch.

"Did Cal say anything after I went to the solarium last night?"

Melinda shook her head. "What are you planning, Grant?"

"How do you know I'm planning something?"

She smirked. "I've known you long enough to know you're always planning something, but I don't think the stakes have ever been higher, have they?"

"They haven't." He agreed. "Look, I like Jemma. I always have. She's a sweet kid. But I don't care how she cut her hair, I'm not about to kiss a billion dollar merger goodbye so Fitz can have it off with some girl."

Melinda nodded. "I agree we can't let Fitz jeopardize his engagement, but I'm more worried for his personal life than the company."

"That's fine. I'll worry about the company enough for the both of us. Just leave it to me."

"Like always?"

"Like always," he said with a nod. "When is Skye due back?"

"Not for another few days. Should we try to get her back sooner?" Melinda wondered if just the mere presence of his fiancée would knock sense back into Fitz.

"No need," Grant said. "This all happened within 24 hours. I can undo it in 48." His confidence left little room to argue as he turned to go. The sound of Melinda's voice stopped him, but she spoke to his back; he did not face her, and when he heard what she was saying decided that was for the better.

"Jemma is not just 'some girl'," Melinda said, alluding to his earlier statement. "Please keep that in mind as you do whatever it is you have planned."

Of course he knew Jemma was not just some girl. He'd known her just as long as the rest of them, knew her to be a gentle spirit, possessing kindness matched only by her genius. He didn't need reminded that she was far more then "some girl". In fact, he would've loved to forget it. He wanted nothing more than to be impartial to her, to treat her as just another line item on a profit and loss sheet. He felt certain he couldn't do that if he dared to see her as more than "some girl".

But, "I know," is what he told his stepmother, and said no more.

* * *

It'd been two years since he'd set foot in the garage and even longer since he'd visited the apartment above it. As he ascended the stairs, he noted that the outward appearance seemed largely unchanged. The paint was peeling on the railing a little bit, and someone had added a trailing vinca plant that hung off the awning, but otherwise, it was as it had been for his whole life.

He knocked and briefly feared Phil answering. To his relief, Jemma opened the door.

"Grant," she said, her surprise clear.

"Good morning," he replied. "Sorry I didn't call first." It was a ridiculous thing to say; he didn't even have her number.

She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. "It's fine," Jemma said, then invited him in. "I just put the kettle on. Would you like some tea?" She was walking toward the small kitchen as she spoke.

Grant lingered in the tiny entry way. "Sure," he replied in response to her offer of tea, then continued to look around. It was as he remembered it. A few jackets hung on the coat tree beside the door. The living room was littered with books, stacked on every available surface. The old TV was off, itself a glorified book stand. He could see Jemma through the pass-through window between the living room and kitchen, retrieving two mismatched mugs from the cupboard as the kettle began to whistle.

He'd only been here once before, as a much younger man. It had been the day of his father's funeral and Fitz had gone missing. Phil's apartment was the last place he looked for his brother. He found them at the kitchen table, sharing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

The interior, like the exterior, was mostly the same, though he picked up on touches of Jemma here or there. A potted plant by the window. Thick, heavy textbooks with long, science-y sounding titles in a pile next to a pair of ladies' slippers. A dark purple cardigan draped over the back of Phil's reading chair.

"What do you take in your tea," Jemma asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"Just a little sugar please." He heard her grumble to herself, something about Americans not knowing how to drink tea properly, but it sounded good natured and playful. Besides, it would surely mortify her if she knew he'd heard be, so he stayed silent.

Jemma brought him his cup then motioned to the open couch. She took a seat in Phil's reading chair.

"Uncle Phil is in town on an errand for Mrs. Ward. He'd want me to say he's sorry he missed you."

"No worries. I'm here for you actually."

He had to give Jemma credit; the hand holding her teacup shook only slightly at this news. "Oh." She carefully schooled her features to remain neutral.

Grant took a sip of his tea. "I was going to take you to visit Fitz, and then wanted to see if you could accompany me to Martha's Vineyard."

"Martha's Vineyard?" She repeated, surprised.

"Yes." Then, because he suddenly got the feeling that if she believed it were a romantic getaway she would decline, he added, "We're thinking of selling the cottage. Upgrading, since the family is getting bigger now." He watched her carefully, but was impressed to see only the barest hint of sadness entered her eyes when he referenced Fitz's engagement; the rest of her face remained impassive. Good girl. "Phil mentioned you picked up photography in Paris. I was hoping I could have you take some photos of the house."

There was a tapping sound as Jemma drummed her nails on her cup. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather hire a professional? I'm still fairly green."

"Consider it a favor to an old friend. An old friend who doesn't trust anyone else to do the job well."

Jemma smirked. He'd never seen her smirk before. "So we're friends, then?"

"Don't you think so?"

She didn't reply, just continued to smile that cheeky smirk while sipping her tea.

They finished their tea within a few minutes. Grant walked their cups to the kitchen sink, then helped her into her jacket before ushering her out the door. If she was stunned by his uncharacteristic gentleman-like behavior, she didn't let on.

They crossed the lawn in silence. In fact, not a word passed between them until they arrived at Fitz's room and Grant addressed the nurse.

"How has he been," he asked in a whisper, so as not to disturb the sleeping Fitz.

"Unconscious, for the most part." The nurse replied.

Jemma knelt beside his bed just as his eyes slowly fluttered open.

"Jemma." He said with a drowsy smile. "Did the dry cleaners have your car?"

She looked at Grant, concerned.

"That would be the OxyContin speaking," he assured her.

"Guess what happened to me," Fitz continued, lifting his eyes only slightly and nodding toward his bandaged bum.

"I know. I know, I feel awful."

"Me too." He looked at his brother, and with a hazy grin, asked, "How do you feel, Grant?"

Grant rolled his eyes. "You're fading, Fitz. Listen, we've got a nurse here for you and a two day supply of red jello. You're going to be okay."

With another half-awake smile, Fitz started to drift off again. Grant gave the nurse instructions contact him with any changes to his brother's condition, and then he and Jemma left.

* * *

One of many perks of having as much money as the Ward family did was the private jet. As they crossed the tarmac, Jemma tried not to be dazzled by it, but felt certain that Grant could sense her excitement.

The interior of the plane was luxurious. Leather seats, a full bar, a large flat-screen TV against one cabin wall. All the windows were open, letting in the bright yellow, late morning sunshine. They were waited on by a flight attendant named Beth, who must have been informed of Jemma's coming.

"Would you like anything to drink, Miss Coulson," she offered.

"Please, call me Jemma."

Beth smiled wide. "What a lovely name!"

"Beth." Grant said, his voice even. "I'll have a Perrier."

The flight attendant nodded, then looked to Jemma again.

"Same," Jemma said.

If Jemma had been hoping for Grant's company during the short flight to Martha's Vineyard, it appeared she would be disappointed, as Grant had his laptop out and was furiously typing away. "Furious", as in the speed with which he punched out letters was impressive. His face remained unchanged. She wasn't sure what he was doing, and figured she'd never know. Something business-related, to be certain. With a man like him, his thoughts were never far from the office, even on days off.

He caught her staring and, mistaking her looking for displeasure, promised, "Im almost done." A few more taps on the keyboard, then he shut it and put it away.

She was astonished that he kept his word.

"So. Jemma. That is a pretty name. Don't suppose there is a story behind it?"

"There is." She said. "It's from a poem my mum read when she was a little girl, about a changeling girl and a woodsprite who saves her when her human family rejects her."

"How sad."

"Yes, but the ending is happy." Then, closing her eyes, she recited. "And with a careless laugh the two, upon the heathered plain, ran arm in arm in manic glee, and were never seen again."

"They ran away together?"

"Yes."

"And Jemma was the changeling."

She smiled. "No. The changeling was named Briony. Jemma was the savior."

* * *

They landed in Martha's Vineyard shortly before noon, and after a quick car ride they arrived at the cottage. She was expecting a quaint retreat, something small and cozy, picturesque and storybook-like, but what the Wards called a cottage was still larger than what most American families called home.

"And you need _more_ room?" She teased, pausing in the driveway. She removed her camera from the bag at her side, uncapped the lens, and snapped a few quick shots of the exterior.

"I suppose the term 'cottage' is a tad misleading." Grant admitted, following as she walked up the path, though she stopped every few feet to take a picture of this view or that plant.

"The landscaping is just lovely." She commented and snapped a picture of the gardenias.

"Yes. My mother had a hand in it. My real mother, not May." He pointed a little farther up the walk. "Her favorites were the roses," he said, motioning to the pale pink flowers there. His mother had planted the rose bushes herself; he could recall in vivid detail the image of her on her knees, placing the bushes in the ground. Grant had patted the earth into place around the flower with his little toy spade, careful to avoid the thorns. He looked down and the memory faded.

After a few seconds had passed, Jemma walked up to the roses and took a few photos. "My mother liked to garden, too." She said quietly. "Nothing on this scale, of course. But our window box had the most beautiful daisies, and she kept a trailing vinca."

"Like the one on your porch now?"

She nodded with a smile. "Dances and knows his plants. Who would've guessed?"

"Are you making fun?"

"Only a little." Then, she lifted the camera to her eye and took a picture of him.

He shielded the lens with the palm of his hand before she could take another. "Not me, please."

"Why not? You're very photogenic." Still, she lowered the camera. "Is it true that Ford models tried to sign you when you were younger?"

"No. It was Wilhemina."

"And you didn't want to? Why?"

He shrugged. "I didn't need the money. I don't like posing for pictures. I wanted to prove I was more than my looks. You could take your pick of answers."

"But which one is truest to you?"

Grant thought about it. "Probably the last one. I'm not too keen on people reducing me to my cheekbones."

"I can relate to that, some," Jemma said with a chuckle. "Not that I was ever model material, but even a mildly attractive woman entering a STEM-field encounters her share of prejudices, too."

Just then, Grant felt a buzzing in his back pocket. "Excuse me for a second," he said and pulled out his cell phone. Jemma nodded and continued taking photos of the cottage. He made sure he was well out of earshot before answering.

"Palamas."

"Hello sir," his assistant said. "Just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking?"

"I don't know. Haven't even made it into the house yet."

"Really? Has something gone wrong? The pilot informed me you landed an hour ago."

"No, nothing's wrong." He looked toward the house. Jemma had disappeared from view. He felt his heartbeat quicken, but told himself she must have just gone to the backyard. What was that he felt? Worry? He'd have to think about it later. "Although I think I'm more affected than she is. Damn near cried twice." He glanced down at his watch. "Listen, it'll be lunch soon. Can you find me the nearest little cafe or diner or whatever and send the directions to my phone, please?"

"Will do, sir."

As he expected, he found her in the backyard, sitting on the swing under the trellis. Wisteria bloomed above and around her, and she was bent over her camera, scrolling through the photos she had already taken. She looked up as he came closer.

"I almost don't need to see the inside of the house. The gardens alone could sell it for you." She scooted to the end of the bench, making room for him. He took it as a wordless invitation and sat.

Jemma continued to click through the photos, a smile on her face the entire time. "I think I've been taking photos my entire life, long before I ever held a camera," she said, then showed him the image on the screen. It was a picture of him. There was the hint of a smile on his lips, revealing two dimples on either side of his face; his gaze was lowered and the sunlight coming over his left shoulder cast a shadow over half of his face. "I know you said no pictures of you," she began, sounding somewhat sheepish, "but I took this while you were talking about your mother. I thought you might like to see it before I deleted it."

"Thank you." He said after he had looked at it a long while.

"I never met Mrs. Ward, but she sounds like she was a lovely woman."

"Her name was Samantha." And he had not spoken of her in years. "Yes, she was lovely." Then, for reasons he wasn't entirely sure of, Grant added, "She would've liked you a lot."

Jemma brightened, a faint blush filling the apples of her fair cheeks. "Do you really think so?"

"I do."

* * *

Jemma didn't spend half the time she did on the gardens that she did on the interior. She took pictures of each room from multiple angles, but other than asking Grant to open the shades in one of two sitting rooms, she said nothing. It wasn't anything to do with the house, and yet it was everything to do with it. It was beautiful, but oppressive in its carefully constructed opulence. It had been staged to look homey and inviting, but lacked all the warmth of a home. She couldn't help but think it would look better with a few, well-loved books strewn about, like in her Uncle Phil's apartment.

As she finished up in the last bedroom -there were six- she imagined growing up in an environment like this. No doubt Grant had been loved as a boy, by his father, mother, and stepmother; but nothing in either the cottage or the main home felt welcoming of children. Both Ward boys had responded to their upbringing according to their unique personalities. It was no wonder Grant grew up rather serious, and no surprise that Fitz bucked convention at nearly every turn.

"Is it always like this?" She asked.

"Like what?"

"Like this. With the flowers and the staging." And the utter lack of anything that made it feel like a home.

"I don't know," Grant admitted. "I haven't been here in years."

Jemma briefly lowered her camera. "How can you own a place like this and never use it?"

"Never had someone to share it with." He said, and gave her a pointed look.

At least, she thought it was pointed. No, surely she imagined it. "You could always hire someone," she replied.

"You're making fun again."

"Only a little." She repeated and snapped a few more photos, then removed the camera strap from her shoulder for once and for all. "Okay. I think I'm done." She began to disassemble her camera, putting the components in their proper place in the camera bag on her hip. "I'd love to get a look at the town while I'm here, if that's all right. I've never been to Martha's Vineyard before. Do we have the time?"

Grant nodded. "We have all the time you'd like."

"Well, it'll be lunch soon. I'd like to find someplace to eat. Care to join me?"

He smiled. She was starting to like his smile very much. "I know the perfect place." He said.

They did not take the car, but rode two beach cruisers into town. The image of Grant Ward the ruthless businessman on a bike was one Jemma could not quite wrap her head around.

He called out landmarks as they rode past them, pointing out this church or that lighthouse, condensing their histories into a few sentences as they pedaled through town at a leisurely pace. Jemma came to a sudden halt a few feet ahead of an old, red-brick building, and gasped.

"What a beautiful building," she exclaimed, and hurried to reassemble her camera so she might photograph it. "It must be a hundred years old! You know, in Paris, they'd consider it brand new. I hope they don't tear it down."

"They won't," Grant assured her. "I own it. That whole block actually."

She looked at him like the concept of owning _an entire street block_ was entirely unfathomable. It took him a second to reconcile that, for most people, it was.

"I'm donating it to the city to use as a halfway house." He had no such plan in place, actually, but it was only under her stare that he became truly cognizant that owning a functional building and letting remain unused was wasteful, to say the least. "Jails are full of guys who never got a break. They get out and their backs are to the wall again almost immediately. It's a vicious cycle. Someone ought to try and break it."

"And you figure, why not you?"

Grant looked at her. "You're surprised?"

She shook her head. "It's very noble, Grant."

He exhaled in relief. She'd bought it, and if the soft expression she was regarding him with was any indication, he was slowly turning her opinion of him.

They lunched at a quaint little café not far from Grant's proposed halfway house. Jemma kept up a steady stream of conversation over a meal of salad and grilled chicken, with Grant interjecting periodically. Most often, he asked her questions, giving her enough to keep her talking.

On her third (or was it fourth?) tangent about Paris, she stopped abruptly and blushed. "I'm sorry. Im rambling, aren't I?"

He didn't disagree. "I don't mind. You have a lovely speaking voice." Grant said, matter-of-factly. The compliment was given so quickly and so simply that Jemma nearly didn't catch it. It was only when he looked up at her to gauge her reaction that she understood what he had said.

"My accent, you mean?" She asked. Then, feeling the need to busy her hands, she reached for her water.

"That, too."

"Well, you can thank my mother for that." She said lamely, then looked down at her salad. She picked through the leafy greens, spearing a sliced radish; all-in-all, spending much too much time assembling her next bite, all to avoid Grant's eyes.

"Do you miss your mother?" He asked.

She kept her gaze down but nodded. "Yes. Do you miss yours?"

"Yes."

She let her fork rest on the edge of her plate. "We have that in common, don't we? Orphans at a young age."

"I was an adult when my father died."

"A young one," she corrected. "Nineteen, if I remember rightly." She sighed, a sad sound that seemed to come from deep within her. "No matter how old you are when they go, losing your parents still makes you an orphan, if only in spirit."

"Yes, well blessed are the poor in spirit, so the verse goes."

Somewhat despite herself, she laughed. "It's hard for me to buy an image of Grant Ward as poor, spiritually or otherwise."

When her laughter stopped, Grant was glad to change the subject, choosing to ask Jemma a question about her camera. The lighter topic was a welcome switch, as he has not meant for them to once again get so near to subjects he had never before spoken of aloud. As she animatedly told the story of how she came to own her camera, Grant could not shake the solemn feeling that had settled over his heart. He had called himself poor in spirit, and she had dismissed it as a joke. Though she behaved as though she had figured him out, he knew then that she had not.

* * *

Melinda did not often visit the apartment above the garage, but when she did, it was always late at night. The sun had set long ago, and there was a slight chill in the air, the leftover humidity from the day turning quite cool with the absence of sunlight. She could see the light on in through the living room window as she climbed the stairs. Phil was still awake.

She knocked softly and entered. The room was quiet, her friend was sitting in his large, plush reading chair. An old Dickens volume lay open in his lap, but she could tell by his furrowed brow that his mind was not focused on the words.

"She still isn't home?" Melinda asked Phil.

He shook his head. "I'm worried, Melinda."

She went to him and sat by his feet, her back against the leg of the chair. Eventually, her head came to rest against his knee, and his fingers slowly combed through the back of her long, black hair. They only ever had stolen moments like this, away from the prying eyes of her stepsons and the hired help, and they were few and far between. However, with his mind so far away and hers also filled with concern for their respective children, she could not relish his company.

"She is safe with Grant," Melinda offered.

She heard Phil sigh. "I know. That's not why I'm worried," he said.

Of course she knew why, and Phil knew Grant well enough to have guessed her elder son's motives, but neither of them spoke it aloud. Inside, Melinda cursed herself, knowing she should have done more -or anything, really- to convince Grant off the warpath; if he could not be swayed, then perhaps she should've taken it upon herself to speak with Jemma.

It was too late for regrets now, she thought. The wheels were already in motion, and Melinda did not know how, or if, she could stop it.

* * *

 **A/N:** The story of where Jemma's name comes from is made-up, although it is a little inspired by both The Moorchild by Eloise McGraw and I Was A Teenage Fairy by Francesca Lia Block.


	6. Chapter 6: One Day Ends A New One Begins

A/N: I'm sorry for the wait. Time gets away from me with a TODDLER WHUUUUUT WHO LET THIS KID GROW UP. This chapter is about 1000 words shorter than the others, but I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer. Besides, it's a fairly transitional chapter, moving us out of act one and into act two. We're over the hill now, people! Errors are mine but formatting issues are FF's... Reviews are better than coffee so PLEASE REVIEW!

 **Chapter 6: One Day Ends, A New One Begins**

"You know, you aren't what people say you are."

Jemma made that statement well after midnight, following a plane ride where she was mostly silent and contemplative. Upon landing, Grant toyed with the idea of hiring a cab, but instead got them a limousine; the luxurious finale to a day that had, despite his efforts, been rather understated.

 _Understated,_ he repeated to himself, and shook his head. The house had been done up to perfection, and she thought it sad. He invited her to lunch, and she ordered a simple meal. When he offered to take her to dinner at one of the island's nicer establishments, she rebuffed him- kindly, of course, and instead asked _him_ to dinner, buying and baking clams over an open fire on the beach. Jemma, whether through effort or unconsciously, refused to be taken in by the glamor of the Ward lifestyle.

The sky was moonless, but the stars shone brightly as they headed home. Grant glanced over at her. Her face was softly illuminated by the blue lights from the limo's fixtures. He could see the trace of a smile on her lips.

"What do people say I am?" He asked.

"The world's only living heart donor." She answered, without missing a beat.

Ah. He'd heard that one before.

There was more. "They say, 'he thinks scruples are money in Russia and morals are paintings on walls'."

"Droll."

"Quite. And then there's my favorite-"

With a wave of his hand, he stopped her. "I get the picture. Thoroughly."

She fell silent, but from the corner of his eye, he saw her smile remained. In fact, it widened. He wondered whether she found his discomfort amusing.

"What's so funny?" He asked.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing." It was so clearly _not_ nothing. She giggled to herself, then said, "Do you remember the afternoon we spent together?"

"You mean, earlier today?"

"No. This was years ago." When he didn't respond, she took it as a sign to continue. "I'd only been in the states for a few weeks. Phil had taken Mrs. Ward and Fitz to some lesson or another. It was storming terribly, so I came into the main house because I was frightened. I turned on a lamp in the hallway and I got a shock, and I thought I'd been struck by lightning." Her voice was tender, soft from remembering. "You were there, and you stayed with me until the storm had passed."

As she told the story, he remembered. He had been at the house to retrieve part of his father's personal tax records and happened upon a shaken Jemma by chance. She was cradling the hand that had received the shock against her chest, fighting tears. He had examined her hand and found it unhurt. When she admitted how afraid she was -the storm was severe enough that it made the walls of the apartment shake, and it was only then that he noticed her clothes and hair were wet- he'd stayed with her. How had he forgotten the way she looked up at him, looking so much younger than eleven, her hazel eyes wide and watery? How her voice had trembled as she whispered her fear? How, until that moment, had he forgotten her hand had felt so small in his?

"I remember." he whispered. "You were very brave."

She didn't agree. "I was more afraid of you than of the lightning."

That sentiment bothered him nearly as much as "the world's only living heart donor" had. Grant was not given a chance to dwell on it though, as in a sudden turn, Jemma asked another question.

"Why did you never get married, Grant?" The query was barely out of her mouth before she let out a chuckle. "You probably don't believe in marriage."

"No, I do." He corrected just as the limousine turned onto Dusoris Lane. The main house came into view as he elaborated. "I do. That's why I never got married. Fitz, on the other hand, believes in Santa Claus." Jemma knew Grant did not mean that literally; rather, it was a comment on the more easygoing aspects of the younger Ward's nature.

"That's why I like him." It was hardly a defense, but it was all Jemma could think to say.

"I like him, too," Grant said as the car came to a stop in front of the garage. "I love him, actually. And I can't for the life of me figure out how to get him to take the reins a little more." He exited the car, waved off the driver, then hurried around to the passenger side, opening the door and offering Jemma his hand.

As she took it, she wondered aloud. "Reins? Of the company, or of his life?"

Grant held her hand a little longer than necessary as he considered it. "Both, I suppose." he said at last.

He felt it was only right that he walked her to the door, so after tipping the driver, Grant followed Jemma, walking slightly behind.

"Thank you for the outing," she said as they ascended the stairs. "It was a nice day."

"It was." He agreed. Then, because he was genuinely curious, Grant asked, "When will the pictures be ready?"

"I suppose I can bring them to you tomorrow."

"Perfect. Well... Good night." He turned to go, making it halfway down the stairs before the sound of Jemma saying his name stopped him. He faced her from the steps. "Yes?"

"My uncle once asked Fitz why he doesn't come into the office, and he said, 'What do they need me for? Grant is there'." He was silent. She continued. "You probably haven't made a wrong move since you were three. I'll wager you haven't believed in Santa since then, either." Jemma's voice was gentle, her smile genuine but sad. It was a look of pity. He did not like being on the receiving end of Jemma's pity, but found he could not muster an ounce of dislike for her.

"Yeah, well... I work in the real world." He said drily, schooling his features into a perfectly blank expression.

"I know you do. But that's work. Where do you _live,_ Grant?"

It would've cost him no effort to reply with his address, but if their time together during the day had shown him anything, he knew better than to be blasé with Jemma when she was asking meaningful questions. He opened his mouth to answer once, twice, but could not find an appropriate reply. It took him a minute to recognize that he could not come up with a good answer, because a good answer did not exist.

A flicker of disappointment passed over Jemma's face. His lack of reply displeased her.

"It was a nice day," she said again, then went inside. He remained on the steps for several minutes after she'd gone, staring at the place where she had been standing: beneath the trailing vinca that swayed gently in the soft nighttime breeze.

Phil had waited up for her.

He was seated, like usual, in his oversized reading chair. His well-worn copy of Leaves of Grass, the pages dog-eared, the cover faded, lay open in his lap. She wondered how much reading he'd actually accomplished as the hour grew later. His eyes were tired, heavy, and he looked so much like her father in that moment, it nearly broke her heart.

He had been worried. Of course he worried. They were all one another had.

Jemma tried hard to not be resentful of his concern over a silly little day trip, but she felt the petulance from her teenage years bubbling, rising up as easily as an old habit. It took a few moments of earnest trying before she felt she could speak without her displeasure being plain.

"You've never waited up for me before," she said to him from the entryway .

"You've never made me feel like I needed to," he replied, closing the book and setting it aside. "Nice day?"

She nodded. "Lovely, in fact. Went to Martha's Vineyard. Rode bikes around the town. Did you know Grant knows how to ride a bike?"

"Alert the media."

"I used to be so afraid of him."

"That's an appropriate reaction." Phil stood, turned off his reading light, and walked towards her. "Now that you're home, I'm off to bed." He kissed her cheek gently. "I'm glad you had a nice time."

"I did. And so am I." She said. As her uncle retreated to his room, she called after him. "Uncle Phil? What was Grant like when he was younger?"

Phil's answer was quick and perfunctory. "Shorter."

There must have been a shift change, Grant noticed as he approached Fitz's room, since the nurse that had been standing guard by the door this morning was now replaced by a younger, male attendant. He was reading a book and looked up as Grant neared, only nodding silently as he opened the door.

Fitz was still ass-up and, as he suspected he had been for most of the day, fast asleep. His curly hair had turned riotous, looking positively Einstein-like as it frizzed in every direction. His mouth was agape, and he snored softly. He looked much younger than his age, and it made Grant nostalgic for his brother as a kid.

"Oh, Fitz." he mumbled, dragging a hand tiredly across his own face. As a child, Fitz had been a handful. Not a troublemaker, just curious. His knack for inventing had manifested when he was young, but in those early days, his experiments resulted in more messes than successes.

Grant, being older by seven years, somewhat unfairly took the brunt of his brother's mishaps. "You should've been watching him," he remembered hearing his father say on more than one occasion. Eventually, he started clearing up the problems on his own just so he wouldn't get told on by whichever maid or chef or other help happened upon them.

It was a habit that had continued into adulthood.

"Fitz, what a mess you've made," he whispered, an echo of days gone by. Unlike the others, though, this one couldn't be cleaned up with either a broom or with money. He walked toward the window. Like in his own room, the chauffeur's apartment could be seen from where he stood, and he was struck anew by the contrast of their lives. If Jemma coveted the Ward family's wealth, she did a good job of hiding it. Grant, amongst his other attributes, prided himself on being able to detect bullshit from others, but even he could not sense material-driven ambitions from Jemma, despite her own apparent lack of wealth.

She had been a good child and a great student, a loving daughter-figure to her bachelor uncle, the owner of a pure heart that asked for so little.

How many times since childhood had Jemma gazed longingly at this very window? Did Fitz ever look that way, giving even a passing glance in her direction?

 _I was more afraid of you than I was of the lightning._

Her confession, no doubt meant to be darkly humorous, had left him feeling wounded. He stared and stared, but the lights were all dim, and blank, dark windows were all that looked back at him, so Grant drew the blinds.

Fitz awoke to a dry throat, the feeling of having swallowed shards of glass, and a ringing cellphone. He fumbled blindly for the phone on his nightstand, extending himself slightly too far to the point he felt a severe twinge in his lower half. He hissed, wincing, but the phone was in his grasp.

"Hello," he answered, and noticed his voice sounded as shredded as his head (and arse) felt.

"I've been trying to figure out a good pun that combines 'glass jaw' with having glass in your ass. Haven't come up with one yet." Skye's voice was playful, but a little more high-pitched than usual. She was trying to be cheerful for his sake, hiding her worry behind bad jokes.

"Hi, Skye."

"Hey, honey." She was more serious now. "Melinda told me. I tried to call you yesterday, but apparently you were pretty dead to the world." He heard her take a deep breath in, and her next words sounded carefully measured. "How are you feeling? What happened?"

The first question was easy enough to answer. "I'm fine," Fitz replied, and once he got a hold of more painkillers, it would be true. As for what happened? Well, in his eyes, that was more complicated.

Through the fuzzy remains of the prescription-driven haze (and prior to that, the buzz of much too much champagne), Fitz tried to quickly reassemble the night. He remembered Grant, looking more thundercloud-like than usual. Melinda, uncharacteristically threatening to kill him. Jemma in her blue dress _(oh, that dress),_ and the _crack, pop, crunch_ of breaking glass.

All those years of sneaking off to the solarium, and he'd never done something quite so stupid, though he couldn't tell which was more stupid: sitting on the glasses, or trying to meet Jemma there in the first place.

Though he'd tried to convince Grant (and himself) that it was innocent, by the light of day and the clarity that came with pain, Fitz was under no delusions. If he had made it to the solarium, the unspeakable would have happened. Sitting on the glasses... was it karma? Cosmic retribution of some kind? Maybe the universe was looking after him, making sure he didn't screw up the one thing in his admittedly privileged life that he could call truly good. Skye was in many ways his equal, and in even more, she bested him. Heaven forbid the day she ever realized how far out of his league she was.

"Divine intervention," he decided it was, and said so.

"What?"

"Nothing." He tried to take a deep breath in, but it caught in his chest when another flicker of pain shot through his lower back. "Listen, can you come home soon? I really need to see you."

"I'm on my way," Skye replied, which is what he'd hoped she'd say.


	7. Chapter 7: Riding in Cars with Rivals

**Chapter 7: Riding in Cars with Rivals**

The day was bright, sunny, and warm, and it seemed the people of New York City had determined to take full advantage of the pleasant weather. From far above, Grant watched the city pulse with activity. Tourists, lifelong city-dwellers, businessmen, starving artists… they all looked the same from up here, little dots in a rainbow of colors that milled about so purposefully.

It had only recently become strange to him that he'd been using this office, formerly his father's, for over a decade and had never before taken in the view. He was accustomed to coming in head-down, ready to put his nose to the proverbial grindstone. Usually, he sat at his desk as Palamas rattled off his daily itinerary. Today, he took the briefing standing at the window. If she found it odd (which he was certain she did), she had the good sense to hide her surprise.

"Quarterly reports will be live at four today," Palamas was saying. "Analytics will be available shortly-"

"-Where do you live, Kara?" Grant asked. He was still gazing out the window.

He heard her stammer at the interruption. "W-where do I… I'm sorry sir. I don't think I quite understand you."

"Never mind, then. Do you know the old brick building I own in Martha's Vineyard?"

Another topic change, but now that she realized the briefing was being set aside for now, she was more ready to follow his lead. "I do. I believe it used to be a private Montessori school."

He nodded. "Have the Rons see if there's any tax advantage to donating the building to the city. I want to see it made into a halfway house."

"And if there isn't? A tax advantage, I mean."

Grant considered the possibility, but only for a second. "Donate it anyway." He finally turned away from the window and faced his assistant, his expression inscrutable as he asked, "Have you ever heard me called 'the world's only living heart donor'?" She didn't reply. "It's okay; you can answer. I won't be offended."

"I've heard…" Palamas admitted slowly, "… things to that effect, over the years."

"Hm." And here he was, thinking he'd carved out a solid reputation as a savvy businessman. He never stopped to consider what social repercussions his ambitions might have had. To be fair, it hadn't mattered to him before, and he didn't care to dwell on why it might matter now.

"I need two tickets to a Broadway show," he said, again changing the subject. "Whichever show no one can get tickets for, and a table for two at the Carlyle for drinks after."

Palamas' fingers hovered over her tablet. "Tickets?" she repeated. "For the theatre?"

"Yes."

She cleared her throat. "Well, it's nearly impossible to get tickets to Hamilton."

"Great. Get them."

"… You do know that it is a musical? And that the actors frequently burst into song and dance and… rap?" He knew his request would come off strange, but Palamas harping on the details to make sure he knew what he was getting into was really too much.

"I know I'm not a theatre buff-"

"- buff?"

He decided to drop it. "Just do what you can, please, and clear my schedule for the afternoon. I'll look at the quarterlies tomorrow."

Now Palamas was nothing short of aghast. She made a small gasping sound, which she smartly disguised by coughing into the back of her hand. "I'll get this taken care of right away, sir." she said, and turned to leave.

Grant called to her once more. "Just one more thing." He watched as she unlocked her iPad, ready to take more notes. "I want you to take a two-week vacation next month. Anywhere you want, on my dime."

Her brown eyes went wide with shock. "Sir, I… don't know what to say. I couldn't possibly-"

"Don't make me phrase it as an order, Palamas. Take the vacation. Go to Florence, or Barcelona… Disneyworld, for all I care."

"Sir… thank you."

"You've more than earned it, Kara." Grant said, very seriously. "You can't just work all the time." And he turned back toward the window.

ooooooooooooooooo

The first thing Jemma did when she awoke that morning was review the photos she'd taken the day before. She intended to edit them, yes, but she was also searching for proof that the previous day had actually occurred. She had gone to Martha's Vineyard, to the famed Ward family cottage, and gone with _Grant,_ no less. Her disbelief of her own experiences was understandable, she decided. Any one of those facts on their own was nearly beyond imagining. The three combined? It still didn't feel real.

But she connected the memory card to her laptop, and there it was; evidence in color of her time on the Vineyard, of the house, and of Grant. She flicked through the pictures rapidly. Even at a glance, she could tell they would require very little editing; at most, just a little color correction and balancing. It was the perfect day for shooting outdoors; just a little overcast, the slight cloud cover acting as a natural diffuser for the sunlight. The architecture of the cottage was designed to take advantage of as much natural light as possible, which only made her job easier. With the drapes opened in every room, the house had been filled with soft light. She was pleased to see that all the warmth she'd felt the home lacked in person had somehow manifested in the pictures.

Towards the end of the card, she found the picture she'd taken of Grant and paused to study it closer. Obviously, he was attractive. Jemma wasn't a fool or so prideful that she wouldn't admit he was handsome; handsomer, even, than Fitz. He had very expressive eyes, the most interesting shade of brown she'd ever seen. They looked nearly amber in the daytime. Perhaps his stoic work persona was to blame -he rarely smiled- but it was only yesterday she noticed long dimples set proportionately on either side of his mouth. And oh, did she have a weakness for dimples.

Yes, she'd agreed to delete the picture, but it seemed a shame to do so. She felt she'd captured something special in his face in that second, something unguarded and true. Jemma was still a novice photographer, regardless of how much faith Grant had put in her skills. Finding something authentic in a person and managing to capture it was not easy. This picture had been a matter of luck, of reading his face and his posture and pressing the right button at the right time. She was loathe to delete it and lose it forever.

She spent a little time picking her favorite pictures of the house, editing in Lightroom, and copying them onto a thumb drive for Grant, then cleared the memory card. She didn't keep pictures of the house for herself. It was beautiful, but she had so many pictures of beautiful things already, and her computer's available memory was almost full. She kept only one photo for herself, moving it to a folder on her desktop called "Special Things". It was where she kept her favorite photographs of France, readily accessible for her to click through and reminisce.

The picture of Grant ended up at the end of the folder, next to a picture of the Seine at sunset. She rather liked him there, beside a river that had become as familiar to her as an old friend, the city she loved in the background under a pink and purple sky. She deleted the generated label attached to Grant's photo, some impersonal combination of letters and numbers that told her nothing about the picture itself, and changed it to something more appropriate. There. Much better.

"A Dear One", it now read.

She realized that, to some, the title would seem romantic, but Jemma had reasoned with herself that it was not so. Through their trip the day before, she had gotten the sense that Grant opened up to very few people; it was possible he was regarded with affection only by those in his family, and that made her very sad. Calling him a dear one was a little bit of wishful thinking on her part; the hope that sometime in the future, someone (certainly not her) would hold Grant dear. She knew that a person could live without love, but she felt strongly that he needed it more than most of the poor souls she'd come across in her life, herself included.

Once she had finished with the pictures, Jemma lingered about the apartment taking time to savor her tea, perfecting her makeup (simple with a red lip), and planning her outfit for the day. She would never be considered fashion forward, not by a long shot, but her time at _Marie Claire_ had taught her how to throw a look together with ease. Today, she chose skinny black pants, a white blouse, and a tan jacket worn over her shoulders. She had two people to visit today, and she wanted to look nice for both of them. She hemmed and hawed over whether to wear flats or heels. She considered Fitz, who was not too much taller than her, and then Grant, who towered over her the day before when she had worn ballet black pants hit below her ankles, making her legs look especially short when she tried on the flats. She knew she owned a few pairs of heels that weren't so extreme she would get uncomfortable fast.

"Oh, what the hell," she decided and grabbed a pair of glossy, nude, pointed-toe pumps. She was going into the city, for heaven's sake. One must look the part, or Angeline would never forgive.

Jemma smiled, remembering her former boss fondly, and slipped into the shoes. Yes, perfect. That was just the look she wanted. Casual enough to visit a recovering friend, but the heels added a touch of formality that would help her blend in with corporate America when she dropped off Grant's photos that afternoon. It was still strange to think that she saw more of Grant in the past two days than she'd seen in years, but she tried not to dwell on it. Neither did she care to dwell on how easily and frequently thoughts of him entered her mind lately.

For now, she pushed Grant out of her thoughts, determined to focus on Fitz and his welfare for the time-being. Her head had cleared since the night of Melida's party, and she was humbled by how foolishly she'd behaved that night. He was engaged! She knew better than to entertain romantic thoughts of a practically-married man and had determined to set that right today, once and for all.

Provided he was lucid, of course.

Her hopes were thwarted when she approached his room. Fitz's nurse was posted outside, dressed smartly in scrubs and comfortable shoes, and seated in a chair reading a book. She looked up only briefly as Jemma drew closer, then back down at her book.

"How is he today?" Jemma asked in a soft voice.

"Recuperating. Doctor said he should have no visitors today." the nurse, a middle-aged woman, replied tersely.

Jemma blinked in response to her interesting bedside manner. "Well, could you tell him Jemma came to see him?"

"I could tell him the Duchess of Cambridge came to see him, but I don't think it'd make a difference." Finally, the nurse looked up from her novel. "I'll let him know."

Jemma nodded her thanks and withdrew, leaving the way she came. Drat. She supposed the conversation would have to wait until a later time.

As she was making her way down the stairs, another woman was coming up. She was roughly Jemma's age, clad in all black, and a concerned expression was on her very pretty face.

She spotted Jemma as she descended and cornered her. "Are you a doctor? Are you treating Fitz?"

Jemma shook her head, but hazarded a guess as to whom the other woman was. "Are you Skye?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm Skye Johnson. How do you know Fitz?"

"We're old friends," Jemma said, adding, "my uncle works for Mrs. Ward."

"Oh!" Skye said, the pieces clicking together for her. "You're Phil's niece! Jemma, right? How did you like Paris?"

Jemma was surprised that Skye knew of her at all, but she replied, "I loved it. I don't miss it yet, but I will."

Skye glanced up the staircase. "How is he doing?"

She relayed what little she knew. "They had him on some pretty heavy meds yesterday, but I don't know how he is today. The nurse wouldn't let me see him. Said he wasn't taking visitors today."

Skye pursed her lips, her eyes narrowed. "Well, we'll just have to see about that."

Jemma soon learned firsthand what a force Skye was when she was determined. She stormed up the steps, Jemma close behind, sidestepped the nurse (ignoring her protests as she did so) and banged on the door.

"Leopold Fitz Ward, if you don't get your cute, stitch-riddled ass out of bed and open the door right now-"

"- ma'am! Please!" The nurse hissed, then narrowed her eyes at Jemma, who could only look at her apologetically.

"Don't worry. I won't get you into trouble." Skye promised the nurse, then banged the door again. "I'll break this door down. Don't think I can't." She smirked at Jemma and whispered, "I can't, but it's fun to pretend."

"Ah." She really didn't know how to respond to that.

There came a clicking sound from behind the door as Fitz unlocked it, opening it narrowly to peek out. He looked at Skye timidly.

"I'm supposed to be resting. Doctor's orders."

"We won't stop you." She replied, forcing the door open wider so that both she and Jemma could enter the room. A little strangled cry escaped Skye's mouth at the sight of Fitz leaning on a cane.

"Melinda said your injuries were superficial!"

"They are." Fitz reassured her. "The cane is temporary. It's just an aid for a few days."

"Oh, sweetheart." All the gusto Jemma had seen just moments before had fizzled. Beneath the bravado, Skye was a nurturer. That much was evident as Jemma watched her help Fitz back to bed, where she lay him down on his stomach, took a seat beside him, and ran her hand gently through his hair.

"Jemma? You came, too?" Fitz asked dreamily as Skye's hand continued to stroke through his curls.

She nodded, forcing a tight smile. "Just wanted to see for myself that you were okay." She couldn't very well address their broken plans for a rendezvous with Skye in the room, now could she? Perhaps it was better to let well enough alone. Maybe her heart (and his poor arse) had been through enough.

"It's so nice of you to come, Jemma." Skye said, and Jemma could tell she meant it.

Fitz turned his head to the side and looked at her. "You look very nice today. Headed somewhere?"

"Oh," Jemma glanced down at her clothes, suddenly self-conscious. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm supposed to go see Grant today."

Fitz's eyes widened. Skye made a small noise of excitement. "Fun! Is it your first time going into the city since coming back?"

She nodded. "I suppose I should call a cab or something."

"I can drive you." Skye offered. Both Jemma and Fitz looked at her with surprise.

"You really don't have to."

"It's no trouble," Skye promised.

"But you just got back." Fitz protested.

She ruffled his hair as she rubbed it. "Oh, like _you're_ going anywhere. I thought the doctor said you needed to rest?"

"He did, but-"

"So, it's settled then. I'll drive Jemma into town and you can get a little more rest." Fitz opened his mouth to protest, but Skye had made up her mind. "Honey, please." She pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Give me my way this once."

"You always get your way." Fitz groused, but he was smirking.

"I know. That's why I love you." She put her lips to his forehead, whispered "I'll be back soon," then asked Jemma, "Ready?"

She knew she meant, "ready to go". And yes, Jemma was. But was she ready to be trapped in a car with the woman who should have been her romantic rival? She wasn't so sure.

ooooooooooooooooo

The car ride was not nearly so torturous as Jemma feared it would be. Skye was naturally a very gregarious person, and they had barely made it out of the drive before she was pulling details of Jemma's life out of her. She was one of those rare, insanely charismatic people who could develop rapport with anyone. Jemma had never allowed herself to hate Fitz's fiancee, but now that she'd met Skye for herself, she found she rather liked her.

Her uncle's prediction that, in another life, the two of them would have been friends was not far off after all.

"So, what's the deal with you and Grant?" Skye asked as they pulled into the city.

Before she could school her expression into neutrality, Jemma made a face. "There is no me and Grant." she said.

Skye shot her a sidelong glance. "You're going to see him dressed like that, and there's nothing going on?" She snorted. "All right."

Jemma glanced down at her clothes. "These are perfectly modest!"

"You saw your butt in those pants, right?"

Her jaw dropped, but Jemma flushed all the same. "I… may have noticed that the heels propped things up more than usual…" Skye snickered and Jemma hurried to finish, "but Grant and I are just friends. I am bringing him photos of the cottage on Martha's Vineyard. I guess he's thinking of selling it."

Another glance. "They're not selling it." Skye said, a confident, matter-of-fact tone in her voice.

"They're… not?" Jemma was surprised. Then why would Grant have asked her to photograph it for selling? And how was Skye so sure?

"No!" Skye laughed. "The cottage has way too much sentimental value to the boys for them to sell it, even if they hardly ever use it." It was odd to hear Fitz and Grant called, "the boys", but Jemma didn't focus on it. "I think you need to get good with the fact that Grant was looking for an excuse to spend time with you."

Jemma didn't know how to answer that. She fiddled with her purse strap, absently spun the ring on her right-hand middle finger.

"I really don't think I'm Grant's type," she admitted quietly.

"And I really don't think you're giving yourself enough credit," Skye answered, then added, "but hey, I could be wrong. I guess you'll just have to see how today goes."

"Yes," Jemma agreed. "I guess I will."

Skye dropped her off shortly after, complimented her outfit as she got out, then said, "Let's make a bet. If I'm right, you're a bridesmaid in my wedding."

Now _that_ made her laugh. "You can't be serious!"

"I am! Believe it or not, you make only so many female friends in tech, and my side of the aisle stands to be a real sausage-fest. I'm a little desperate, so if I'm right, you'll be a bridesmaid." Skye waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "I'll even make sure you walk back up the aisle with Grant so you guys can get a feel for it."

Jemma had gotten enough of a handle on Skye's brand of humor to know that _that,_ at least, was definitely a joke. "Thanks for the ride, Skye," she said drily, but her smile was real as she shut the car door.

"Anytime!" Skye said through the open window. "You're sure you don't need me to pick you up later?"

"I'm sure. You just…" she paused. "You go take care of Fitz."

Skye smiled. "Later, Jemma."

"Later." Once alone (or rather, as alone as one could be in NYC), she turned to face the building that housed the Highware corporate offices.

A lump formed in Jemma's throat as she looked up, up, and up, as far as her eyes could strain to see. It was a newer building, the brick a cold and ugly gray. She couldn't put a finger on the particular style, having only the barest knowledge of architecture, but it seemed the building was meant to be functional more than it was meant for beauty. In a way, it made her long for Paris, and she was reminded anew of how very different hers and Grant's worlds were.

Skye was wrong. Of that, Jemma was certain. There was no affection to be found for her here, in the Wards' world, from either brother. Jemma rolled her shoulders back, summoned all of her courage, and walked inside.

A/N: Don't worry. This story is not abandoned. It may take me a while to update, but it will be finished! formatting is a nightmare, so I had to improvise on line breaks. Sigh...

I really enjoyed writing Skye and Jemma in this chapter. The characters they represent never meet in either version of Sabrina, but I couldn't have a whole story with them in it and keep them apart. Their bond is one of my favorite parts of AOS. Let me know what you think by leaving a review, please!


	8. Chapter 8: The Incomparable Jemma

**Chapter 8: The Incomparable Jemma**

It was an hour after lunch that Palamas rang Grant on the intercom.

"Jemma Coulson." was all she said, and it was followed by a low hum as she buzzed Jemma into his office.

She entered a moment later and the first thought that came to his mind was "resplendent". It was a rather silly word to use in everyday applications, a relic leftover from his SAT prep courses decades prior, and he wasn't totally sure that he was using it right… but still. That's the word he thought of when she walked in, looking lovely and warm and (dare he say) Parisian in her tan jacket and vibrant red lipstick.

He stared for far too long, but she didn't notice. She was busy taking in his office, turning a full circle to see it all.

"Wow. It's… big." Not lovely, not resplendent, nothing close to words that he'd been thinking, but he wasn't much surprised. His office _was_ large, and less built for beauty than for its purpose. He hadn't changed a thing about the decorations since he took the office over from his late father, and the last time a decorator had stepped foot in the office had been the early nineties. So what decor there was, was dated and borderline gaudy. It wasn't to his tastes, but he couldn't find the will to care enough to change it. And… he liked having his father's office. It made him feel close to the old man, somehow. Regardless, any compliments to the effect of it being beautiful would have been exaggerated, and he couldn't fault Jemma's commitment to honesty by not calling it what it wasn't.

"It's where I do that real work in the real world." he said and offered to take her jacket. As he hung it on the coat tree beside his office door, she spoke.

"I didn't mean to offend you." She sounded a little sheepish.

"Don't worry. I'm a hard man to offend." he answered as he turned around and motioned to his desk. She took a seat across from him and slid the thumb drive over to him once he was seated behind his computer.

The pictures loaded quickly, but he needed only to flip through two to realize they were not of the cottage. Rather, the pictures were of what he guessed was Paris, but he didn't let her know immediately. He couldn't help but to click through a couple, just to marvel.

"That's quite the view of the house." he said when he came upon the image of a cathedral. "I know photographers have tricks that can make things look bigger, but you've truly outdone yourself."

Jemma rounded his desk to get a better look, then laughed when she realized her error. "How silly of me. I must have mixed up the drives." She rifled through her bag and a minute later withdrew a second, identical thumb drive. Replacing the drive required her to lean into his space. Grant would have offered to take it from her, but he enjoyed her being so close. With so little distance between them, her hand resting on the back of his chair, her body cheated towards him as she reached to switch the drives, he could just make out the scent of her perfume. The whole thing felt rather… he was hesitant to call it "intimate".

At last, she got the correct pictures onscreen and put the other thumb drive away. He noticed she didn't retreat back to her seat, but stayed beside him as he clicked through the set.

"Is it to your liking?" she asked.

He nodded. "You'v done a wonderful job. The cottage looks amazing."

"Well, that had very little to do with me."

"You should give yourself more credit." Grant turned slightly to look over at her. "What do I owe you for the pictures?"

She waved a hand and shook her head, as if the thought of receiving compensation for her work was ridiculous.

"What? You don't think I'm good for it?" He was teasing her now.

She gave him a slight smile. "You're making fun."

"It's my turn." He pushed his hair away from the desk, turning the seat around to face her fully, and folded his hands in front of him, his two forefingers forming a point that he rested against his lips as he faked deep thought. "Are you by any chance interested in stocks?"

"Stocks? For photographs?"

"You're right. That's ridiculous. Bonds, then?" She laughed. He was beginning to love the sound of her laugh. "Theatre tickets?" This was his genuine offer.

"Theatre tickets?" Jemma was still smiling, under the illusion that, like his previous suggestions, this was a joke.

"Theatre tickets." Grant repeated. "I have two tickets for 'Hamilton' tonight. Trying to take your advice about the good life, 'knowing when to quit', and all that. Thought you might like to join me." When she didn't immediately answer, he added, "Maybe it's a bad idea."

"No." she was quick to say. "No, it's a wonderful idea. And…" she paused, and he could see she was weighing consequences in her mind, but soon she smiled again and said, "I'd love to."

ooooooooooooooooo

At Grant's suggestion, Jemma spent the rest of the afternoon in the city. In his office, in fact. She had glanced down at her clothes and felt they were too casual to wear to the theatre, especially since Grant wore a suit, but he insisted she shouldn't change a thing.

"You're perfect," he'd said, and that was that.

So she passed the remaining hours of his work day by perusing the large book shelf on the wall opposite the window. Jemma wasn't sure what sort of literature she expected Grant to keep, but she was surprised that the shelves were stocked less with business manuals, and more with novels.

"You have quite the collection." she said to him, running her hand over familiar green and gold binding. She recognized the volume from Phil's own collection at home.

"Yes, you have your uncle to thank for that." he replied, though his gaze remained steady on his computer screen.

"Oh?"

"Anytime he suggests a book, I buy it." He smirked, meeting her eyes at last. "He makes a lot of suggestions."

"I can see that." She withdrew one from the shelf herself. "I never took you for a reader."

"I'm not. I'd like to be, though. One day."

She sighed. Grant and his "one days". She didn't want to press the issue again, though, so she only held the book up and said, "Mind if I-"

He shook his head before she finished asking. "Help yourself."

She took the book, a compilation of Tolstoy stories, to the sofa just a few feet away from his desk.

No sooner had Jemma sat down than the phone in her pocket buzzed. She had received a text message from an unknown number.

 _Unknown: So? What's the status?_

 _Unknown: Lol. Status. Get it? Like, dating status?_

Jemma gave herself one guess as to who the stranger might be.

 _Jemma: Skye?_

 _Skye: Yep!_

 _Jemma: I guess I shouldn't ask how you got my number. You probably used your computer voodoo, right?_

 _Skye: Please! I asked Melinda, who asked Phil… but I like that you think I have the skills to do something like that!_

 _Skye: Because I do. I just don't have time for the legal repercussions… ANYWAY, what's the deal?_

 _Jemma: I don't know if there is "a deal". He asked me to go with him to the theater tonight._

 _Skye: He ASKED you OUT?!_

 _Jemma: Not exactly… he sort of called it payment for the pictures I took._

 _Skye: The pictures you took for the cottage he isn't actually selling?_

 _Jemma: …_

 _Jemma: Those are the ones._

 _Skye: I WAS RIGHT_

 _Jemma: I wouldn't say that!_

 _Skye: I. WAS. RIGHT._

 _Skye: So I guess the only thing left to ask is would you rather wear the juniper or the marigold dress for my wedding._

 _Jemma: You weren't actually serious!_

 _Skye: OH MY GOSH what if we end up sisters-in-law?! Can you IMAGINE how much fun that would be?_

Jemma laughed out loud at that. She was fairly certain Skye was teasing, but the idea of her and Grant… it was laughable. Wasn't it?

"What's so funny?" Grant asked.

"Oh." She cleared her throat. "Nothing. Skye is just… a lot."

"Skye? _Fitz's_ Skye?" He sounded surprised. "I didn't realize you were friends."

"We weren't until today." She put her phone aside. Skye was still going on about the (absolutely ludicrous) possibility of them ending up family, but Jemma decided to ignore the texts for now. "She doesn't seem to be giving me much choice in the matter of us being friends, but I don't think I mind. She's very nice."

"That she is."

"Do you think… she and Fitz are good for each other?" It was an awkward question to pose, but she needed to know. Not because of any feelings she harbored for him, but because… he was Fitz. Regardless of what love she did or did not hold for him, she would likely always be concerned about his well-being and happiness.

The question hung unanswered in the air for a long moment. During that time, Grant walked away from his desk and took a seat on the couch beside her. She watched wordlessly as he untied his bow tie, leaving it undone around his neck, and unbuttoned several buttons on his dress shirt. She wasn't sure why he did so. Getting more comfortable, perhaps? Did he mean to disarm her? To _charm_ her? He looked quite handsome, even when disheveled. Closer up, she detected the slightest bit of scruff on his usually clean-shaven face.

"Fitz and Skye are great together," he said, confirming what she already knew. She was not expecting him to add, "But she'll never be you, Jemma."

She grimaced. "That's not why I was asking."

"I know, but I'm saying it anyway. Skye is great," he paused, letting that truth resonate for a few seconds before finishing with, "but you're incomparable."

ooooooooooooooooo

Jemma soon learned that Grant undoing his tie and top buttons was a tell of sorts, a signal to himself and the world that he was finished with work for the day. Palamas, when she came to bring them both coffee around four o'clock, seemed surprised at his state.

"Will you be taking off early, sir?" she wondered as she placed the lattes on the coffee table. He and Jemma were still seated on the sofa. If Kara thought anything unseemly had occurred (Jemma wondered if she would, given his appearance), her face did not betray her.

"Thinking I may," he said, then looked at Jemma. "We could catch a quick dinner before the show, if you'd like."

"That sounds lovely." Jemma replied.

"Should I retrieve fresh clothes for you, sir?"

"No, that's okay. I have a spare set in the bathroom." He nodded toward the restroom in the corner of his office. "Thanks, Palamas."

She excused herself and left the couple by themselves. Grant downed his coffee quickly, then stood and withdrew to change.

Finally alone, Jemma took the opportunity to check her phone. She had no fewer than ten unread messages from Skye.

 _Skye: Seriously though. Juniper or marigold._

 _Skye: If you don't choose, I'm choosing for you._

 _Skye: Fine. I'm choosing._

 _Skye: Are you there?_

 _Skye: Hellooooooooo_

 _Skye: Fitz's butt is getting better. In case you wanted to know. About his butt._

 _Skye: Butt has got to be, like, one of the funniest words ever. Top ten definitely. It's the 9th funniest word in the English language._

 _Skye: You're so quiet! Are you and Grant… oh my God. Oh my GOD._

 _Skye: I don't know if I want you to say yes or no to this question. I regret it. Pretend I said nothing._

 _Skye: You're wearing the juniper dress. And do you know why? Because Grant's favorite color is blue. And yeah, juniper isn't exactly blue, but it's not NOT blue. So. You're welcome. You're both welcome._

Jemma read through the messages, smiled, but didn't reply. She figured there'd be plenty of time for that later. Tonight. After she went to a play with Grant.

Thinking the words in succession like that set her made her heart race; it was not an uncomfortable feeling, but an exciting one.

Grant walked out of the bathroom not long after, having changed from his suit into jeans, a black henley shirt, and a leather jacket. She'd never seen him look so casual. It was refreshing.

"May I touch up my makeup?" she asked.

He motioned toward the bathroom. "Be my guest.

She didn't shut the door behind her as she walked toward the mirror above the sink. Surprisingly, he stayed close. She caught his reflection beside hers as she touched up her lipstick and made sure her hair was cooperating. He was watching her intently, the smallest of smiles on his face.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing. You just… you look really nice."

She turned away from the mirror, but didn't have to see her reflection to know her cheeks were going pink from his compliment. "It's the lipstick." she said.

"It's not just the lipstick." he replied as he grabbed her jacket and held it ready for her. She didn't need his help, but she recognized the gesture as gentlemanly and had no intention to decline. Then, he offered his arm. "Shall we?"

"Okay." she said, and rather than take his arm, she took his hand.

ooooooooooooooooo

"She won't answer my texts!" Skye complained as she flopped down on the bed. The movement jostled Fitz, who winced and cried out. "Sorry," she said quickly, rubbing his lower back.

"It's okay." he bit out. It wasn't quite okay, but he knew she hadn't meant to do it. "Who's not answering your texts?"

"Jemma. She's going to be one of my bridesmaids, you know."

Fitz shot straight up; or rather, as "up" as his condition could allow. "Are you sure that's a good idea? You've just met."

Skye shrugged. "You and Grant have known her practically forever, Melinda and Phil are constantly giving off the _weirdest_ vibes… it just seems like your families are pretty entwined. I could either be repulsed by it, or run with it." She glanced down at her phone again. Still nothing. "I'm choosing to run with it."

"Nice to know you're choosing to not be repulsed by my family." Fitz noted sarcastically. "Truly the height of romance."

"Oh come on. You know what I mean. You guys have some _serious_ enmeshment. My therapist would go crazy over your families"

"Ooo, and that sentence managed to be a pun and offensive all at once."

"What can I say? It's a gift." When Fitz snorted in response, Skye grew serious. "If it really bothers you, I won't put her in the wedding. I just figured… she was always kind of around, right? Her and Phil?"

He pictured Jemma hiding out in that tree during their family parties. "You could say that." Then, he hurried to add, "It would fly in the face of what the north shore 'old money' will expect, which strangely increases the appeal."

"Right?"

"Society pages around the country will have a conniption."

Skye laughed. "This just gets better and better."

Fitz agreed. "You know what would really cause a frenzy?" He rolled onto his side gently, resting his head on his left hand and taking one of hers with his right. "Let's elope."

Another laugh from Skye, but when he didn't join her, it faded quickly. "You're serious?"

"Why not? Nothing about dating or engagement has been typical for us. Why should our wedding be?"

Skye stammered out a few weak, half-formed excuses. "But the caterer… the flowers… juniper! I told Jemma she was wearing a juniper dress!"

"She can wear a juniper dress just as easily at a courthouse, as one of our witnesses." Fitz reasoned.

She groaned a little, but Fitz could tell by the way her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed that she was genuinely considering it. "My father would burst a blood vessel over all the lost deposits." A smirk ghosted over her mouth. "Almost makes the trouble worthwhile."

"Is that a yes, then?"

She leaned over to him and pressed a kiss against his waiting lips. "It's certainly not a no."

ooooooooooooooooo

"Have any place in mind?" Grant asked as they exited the office building.

Jemma shook her head. "Would you mind if we walked for a while? It's been so long since I've just wandered around the city."

"That sounds nice." Still holding her hand, Grant led the way. He was quite a bit taller than her, his strides long, and the pace he set was soon too much for her to keep up with.

"Whoa, Grant!" she exclaimed with a laugh, putting her free hand onto the arm that held onto her palm and patting lightly. "Why rush? Let's just enjoy it."

"New York natives will literally kill us if we walk slowly," he offered as a reason, but nonetheless cut his pace by half. They easily fell into sync then. She didn't feel rushed, but he didn't feel held back. It was a happy medium.

"Do you ever get recognized when you go out?" Jemma wondered.

"Not usually." was Grant's reply. "And definitely not when I'm dressed like this."

"Definitely not." she agreed, her voice playful. "And definitely not when you're sporting a beard, I imagine."

He lifted one hand to scrub self-consciously at his stubble. "I didn't have the chance to shave this morning. I… overslept." He admitted it softly, like a caught schoolboy giving an excuse for tardiness to a disapproving teacher.

Of course, Jemma didn't disapprove. She even laughed. "For what it's worth, scruff is nice. Most women these days like a little scruff on men." She weighed whether to add on to that at all, then decided _what the hell_ and threw all caution to the wind. "It's actually very handsome."

He wasn't blind to the fact that she stopped just shy of calling _him_ handsome, but it was close enough to qualify as a compliment. Compliment-adjacent, if you will, which he did. "Well, I'll keep it then."

"Do what you like," she answered a little too quickly before finishing in a low, conspiratorial voice, "but I rather like scruff, too."

There was no way she meant it suggestively, Grant knew. Absolutely know way she intended to let her accented voice growl over the syllables, taking the meaning from innocent to nearly an entendre. But, once the seed was planted in his mind, he couldn't shake it. He wouldn't fool himself into thinking she wasn't attracted to him, and he to her. He'd seen her smile, seen how she'd dressed for their meeting today, and how she'd taken his hand when his arm was offered. What he hadn't expected was the thrill of each of those moments. Seeing her walk in with vibrant red lips, feeling her tuck her small hand into his… things had happened so quickly, at such a breakneck speed, he very nearly forgot there was a purpose to him pretending to court Jemma.

Because of course he was meant to pretend; never mind that, with every passing moment, it was hard to distinguish between what was real and what wasn't where the two of them were concerned.

He'd worry about that later, he decided. After the show, or even tomorrow. This here? Her hand in his, their fingers interlaced? At least for now, that was real.

A/N: I'm thinking there are two, maybe three chapters left in this story. We are almost there! Once again, formatting on ff dot net can be a nightmare, so I had to improvise. Please review!


	9. Chapter 9: Most People Live In-Between

They walked, hand-in-hand, for nearly an hour, until they happened upon a small diner. Grant had pictured them going somewhere a little more upscale, but when he saw the way Jemma lit up at the sign advertising New York's best burgers, he knew there was only one choice.

"Want to go in?" he asked.

She seemed surprised he noticed her eyeing the diner. "Do… do you want to?" She stammered, a flush coming over her cheeks.

He laughed. God, but she was cute. "Come on. When's the last time you had a burger?"

"It's been ages," she said, leaning on the last word dramatically. "It's so funny," she began, as they walked inside and helped themselves to a seat at a booth with cracked red vinyl seats, "but in France, even though I was surrounded by all of their amazing food and their beautiful culture, sometimes all I wanted was a big, greasy, American cheeseburger."

"Well, your secret's safe with me."

"Good, because Martine might kill me if she ever found out." Jemma said with a laugh.

A waitress soon came to take their orders. Grant ordered a BLT with coleslaw and a soda, and Jemma went all in for the bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate milkshake.

"You're really going for it, are you?" he teased when the waitress had walked away, their ticket in her hand.

"Well, isn't that the point of tonight? Not holding back? Living it up?" She looked at Grant. "I've waited a year for this burger, Grant. You're not going to ruin this for me, are you?"

"I wouldn't dare."

"Good."

Their meals came out fast - "faster than a Michelin-starred restaurant, I'll give you that" Grant said- and were delicious. Jemma even moaned a little when she bit into hers.

"I don't know if it's because I haven't had one in so long or because it really is the best burger in New York, but this might be the most delicious burger I've ever had." she said around her second mouthful before hurrying onto her third. "Oh, Grant, you're spoiling me."

He had never considered himself classist, but before that night, Grant never would've guessed something as small as a ten-dollar burger could make anyone smile the way she was smiling at him now. She really was making him rethink all kinds of things.

They ate quickly, but lingered at the booth much longer than their meal lasted. He fought the temptation to check his watch frequently and soon found that the urge got easier and easier to ignore as time went on. Grant asked Jemma what remained of his questions about her time in France, and she was only too happy to regale him with yet more tales of her experience in Paris. She spared no detail, even if doing so meant she shared some information that might have caused her embarrassment; more than one story was about some set of one photoshoot or another, and the mishaps that followed due to the language barrier or her ignorance of photography.

Jemma, in reciprocation, asked Grant about what she'd missed during her time away. "Not much," he admitted.

His answer did not satisfy her. "Come on, Grant. _Nothing_ changed?"

"I mean it. The company grew, but the company is always growing. Fitz dated around, but Fitz always dates around. Melinda was stoic, and I worked." He shrugged. "Things have been largely the same in the Ward world since I was twenty years old."

"Nothing happened that was, I don't know… surprising? Or out of the ordinary?"

He thought of one thing. "I think I took a nap in March."

Despite herself, she laughed. "Oh, Grant."

He noticed she was beginning to make a habit of that. Saying his name, leaning on it with her accented voice. This time, in spite of her laughter, there was pity in her voice.

"But listening to you talk," he began, his voice low, "I don't know. Sometimes I wonder -lately, especially- what it would be like to spend time in a place I loved the way you love Paris. Not for a layover, or for a business trip, but for a real break. A real change." He was on a roll now, the words spilling out before he could stop them, "I do what my dad did, he did what his dad did. I sit in an office that's practically a shrine to the man he was, but there's nothing of me there. I've poured my youth and my life and my soul into a company and none of it…" he trailed off and looked up at Jemma. She had her chin in her palm, her fingers curling up to cover her mouth as she watched him intently.

His unfiltered diatribe culminated in him confessing, "I don't know if I am what I am because that's who I'm meant to be, or because it's what the company needed."

Jemma did not appear shocked by him saying so. "You're still young, Grant. There's still time for you to choose to be the man you want to be." Her free hand reached for his, and he let her take it.

Her fingers were warm as they caressed the back of his hand, her skin and her touch soft.

"I'm not a lost cause, then?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I don't believe anyone's a lost cause."

A moment of silence passed between them until suddenly, Jemma perked up. "What time is it?" she asked.

Only when she mentioned it did he at last hazard a glance at his watch, He frowned. "Time really got away from us. It's 7:15. We missed the curtain going up. We could try to make it over there for the second act, if you'd like."

She shook her head and smiled. "That's all right. I'm enjoying myself just as we are."

"Really?"

"Really."

They agreed though that they should free up the table if they were finished, so Grant paid their bill and left the waitress a generous tip.

"Well, since the theater's a bust, where would you like to go?" He asked when they got outside.

She held onto his arm. "I enjoyed walking."

"But we've walked so much already. Surely you're getting bored."

Jemma smiled in such a way her nose wrinkled, and she shook her head. "I'm a cheap date, Grant."

 _Date._ Of course it was a date. Dinner and a play (or the idea of a play). He'd meant her to view it that way, and now that he knew for sure that she had… he didn't know how to feel. Thrilled, a little, at the prospect of a date. He didn't remember the last time he'd been on one of those. And disappointed. Disappointed that Jemma, for all her intelligence, had not yet seen through his ruse.

She misunderstood his silence for discomfort and rushed to amend. "I'm sorry. I guess that was presumptuous to say…"

"Not at all." he corrected. "That's precisely what this is, isn't it?" But he didn't want to spend too long on the subject, so he hurried to move on. "So, Paris." Paris was always a safe subject with her. "You've told me why you love it. What _didn't_ you love?"

"How expensive everything was." she replied without missing a beat.

"Well, I'd have to learn how to say 'I'm just looking'. Or 'This is what I want'." He slowed down, coming to a stop, and turned toward her. "How do you say 'I'm looking at what I want'?"

She flushed, and stammered out, "I don't remember." When he didn't immediately begin walking again, she tugged on his arm. "Come on, we should keep going. The locals will literally kill us if we walk too slow, remember?"

ooooooooooooooooo

Melinda was over. She was over more nights than she wasn't, lately, ever since Grant had begun his questionable courtship of Jemma. Phil was grateful for the distraction her presence provided, never mind that their increased time together had set some of the other household staff gossiping, although nothing could truly take his mind off concerns for his niece.

"I made you some tea," Melinda said as she came from the kitchen bearing a tray with a teacup, some cookies, and a small bouquet of flowers, "and some flowers to brighten up your window."

He looked up from his book. "Been watching 'Remains of the Day' again?"

Melinda knew Phil well enough to know his uncharacteristic surliness was misdirected. "She can handle herself with him, you know. She's not a child."

"I don't trust him, Melinda."

"I know you don't, and I can't say I blame you. But he promised me he would not hurt her. She's not just some girl to him, Phil." Melinda offered what little consolation she could.

"No, it's worse. She's a business transaction."

Her eyes narrowed. "Grant would never hurt her." she repeated, a little forcefully this time.

His answer was measured; diplomatic, even. "I believe he would never _mean_ to hurt her, but you and I both know the path to hell is paved with good intentions, and for all of his business acumen, Grant is ill-prepared to handle her heart.

"It doesn't help that Jemma seems displaced in all this. She doesn't belong above a garage. She doesn't belong in a mansion either."

"Well, most people live in between," Melinda said quietly, then put the tray down on the coffee table. "Have your tea and try to relax." She headed towards the door.

"You're not staying?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I hear the staff chatter just as much as you do, Phil. Between us, and your niece and my sons, perhaps we should limit ourselves to one family scandal at a time."

"It's hardly a scandal," he muttered, but made no move to stop her. He knew Melinda well enough to divine her meaning even when she didn't say much. She was probably right to leave, and when she closed the door, it would likely be the last time she stepped foot into the apartment. Their own strange dance would draw to a close the moment she walked outside. Perhaps that was just as well.

Jemma may have been able to live in between, but Phil knew his place.

ooooooooooooooooo

"I really should get back into the city," Skye said sadly as she looked at her phone and checked the time. It was after nine. She had a meeting early the next morning.

Fitz was a little disappointed, but he understood. She'd already cut her trip earlier that week short, returning home to see him when she should've been relishing in the success of her TED talk. He wouldn't ask her to make more sacrifices now, and certainly not when he was on the mend and had reached a point where he could handle himself. "I'll walk you down."

She snorted. "Like hell you will." But he insisted, hauled himself to his feet, and leaned on his cane for extra support as he walked her down the hall.

"It doesn't hurt so bad now," he said to her as they went. She was mindful to keep the pace slow, lest he hurt himself in his endeavors to be a gentleman. "I'm more stiff than I am in pain."

"And you probably feel better now that I got the doctor to stop giving you those horse tranquilizers."

Fitz grimaced. "Yeah. Not sure why he felt he needed to drug me so heavily. You would've thought I couldn't handle pain the way he was dosing me."

"Right? _Nobody_ would _ever_ think that." Skye exaggerated every other word, her sarcasm evident as she shot him a sidelong glance before laughing.

"This is about the wasp sting again, isn't it?"

"It was a bee."

"It was a _wasp_ , and it hurt like hell." Fitz protested.

Skye retorted with, "It probably hurt the bee worse."

"Wasp, and if you're trying to make me feel sympathetic to the little bugger's plight, you haven't. My lip was swollen for a week."

"I remember." She tried and failed to hide a smirk behind her hand. "It was the closest to being a Jenner you'll ever get."

Her car was in front of the house, parked in the center of the u-shaped driveway, which was a relief to Fitz. For all his show of feeling better, the movement had made his stitches start to itch.

He had just finished seeing her off, watching her car's tail lights fade in the distance, when another car came up the drive.

"Fancy meeting you here," Fitz said after Grant had parked (right where Skye's car had been just minutes before, in fact) as he opened the door for Jemma and offered a hand to help her out. She took his hand, but he noticed she avoided leaning too much (or any, really) of her weight on him.

"You out for a walk?" Grant asked as he rounded the hood of the car and came to stand close to Jemma. Very close, Fitz noticed, to the point that their fingers brushed. He was half-expecting him to put his arm around Jemma, but he didn't.

He refrained from commenting on the closeness (even though he really, really wanted to) and instead only answered Grant's question with, "Just seeing Skye off." Then, looking at Jemma, he asked, "How was the city? Skye mentioned something about seeing 'Hamilton'."

"Well, that was the plan. We didn't quite make it to the theater." Jemma said. Then, realizing how _that_ sounded without context, hurried to add, "We went to dinner and then walked around for a bit. It was very nice."

Grant nodded towards Fitz's cane. "What's the word from the doc?"

"He says I'm healing fast, but I probably can't go traipsing about the city for a bit. You headed back tonight?"

"Nah, it's getting late. Think I'll stay out here."

"Okay."

"Okay."

The brothers then seemed to engage in a wordless battle, staring each other down without either budging from their spot. It didn't seem particularly tense; Fitz was even smiling a little. Still, it became clear after a few awkward moments that it would be up to Jemma to break the silence.

"Okay, then." She leaned on Grant and patted his arm. "Thank you for a lovely night, Grant. Fitz, what say we get you back upstairs and to bed? I'll help you up."

"Thanks, Jemma."

She took him gingerly by his free arm and, with one last look at Grant, led him to the house.

Grant watched them go. Fitz only glanced back once, to shoot him a smug, teasing look, clearly meant to rub Jemma's preference in his face.

It was a rare thing for Grant to feel like a fool, but here he was, standing in the driveway, watching a girl he'd just gone on a date with walk away with his brother. He was reticent to admit how much it stung. Not that he had a right to feel hurt when, at least on his part, this was all meant to be an act.

Oh, damn it. He'd gone so far off piste. Tomorrow, he resolved, he'd finish what he started. He already knew what he'd do, but a little tremor ran through his heart to think about it.

He chalked it up to heartburn and, after giving the pair a minute or two head-start for the sake of their privacy, went inside.

ooooooooooooooooo

"You know," Fitz said as she led him up the staircase, "we never did have that drink."

Oh, God, why would he bring that up now, she wondered to herself. Wasn't she conflicted enough? "No, we didn't," is all she said to him.

"Well," he continued, trying hard to sound game, "I'm sure I could scare up some champagne, and some dixie cups. No glasses. I'm through with glasses."

Despite herself, she laughed, but could not help her sad sigh as she said, "Oh, Fitz. What's going to happen?"

"What do you mean?"

She paused. "What do I mean," she asked aloud of herself. They were still on the steps, but had slowed to a stop in their conversation. "We are friends, aren't we?"

"I'd certainly like to think so."

She didn't even break to marvel at that fact. Hadn't she spent most of her youth thinking him inaccessible, and here he called her his friend as though it were nothing short of natural? "Well, as your friend, let me just tell you that I think drinking champagne, alone, with a woman that is not your fiancee is not the best idea. I'm sure your intentions were pure, but one must live above reproach when one is in so visible a position."

"I don't care what gossip mags have to say."

"No, nor do I. But I've met Skye only today and already, I care what she might think if she saw us in a compromising position. Don't you?" She didn't give him a chance to answer. She didn't need him to. She only kissed him on the cheek and said goodnight.

"You're a good woman, Jemma." Fitz called after her. "If I'd seen it sooner-"

"-Sorry," she interrupted him. She still managed a smile, but it was tight. Forced. "But I really can't entertain the 'ifs', Fitz. It's not fair to me or Skye."

"Or Grant?"

"Yes. Him as well, I suppose."

"You know, it surprised me." He looked down, avoiding her gaze. "I don't think I've ever lost a woman to my brother before."

She hadn't consider herself lost to him before that moment. They'd been spending time together. They'd even been on a date. Sometime during the past few days, her preference had moved from the younger Ward heir to the elder. Every feeling she'd once had for Fitz, she felt now for Grant. Was it just another crush? Did this mean she was fickle?

She didn't know for sure. All she knew, and what she told Fitz, was, "It surprised me, too."

A/N: one chapter closer to the end! I'm trying to update as quickly as I can, as the drama is really picking up! I think there will be two more chapters, and possibly an epilogue. How does that sound to you?


	10. Chapter 10: Paris Is Always a Good Idea

The first thing that Grant did when he got into the office that morning was take off his tie.

The second thing he did was call in Palamas.

"Good morning, sir," she began as she walked in. "How was the theater?" She looked up from her tablet and studied him then, noted how tired he looked and his lack of tie, and said, "That bad, huh?"

He shoved the tie in one of his desk drawers. It felt like a noose around his neck today, and he wanted it off and far away from him. "I want you to get me two tickets on Air France to Paris. One for me…" he hesitated, then added begrudgingly, "and one for Jemma Coulson."

Her finger hovered over her tablet. "And what day are you flying out?"

"Tomorrow."

"… And for how long?"

He was done answering questions. He slammed the desk drawer shut, making Palamas jump. He tried not to make a habit of acting angry in the office. He was usually more level-headed than he was currently behaving. Grant knew it probably unsettled Kara, but he had very little capacity to care at the moment. "It doesn't matter, Palamas. Just get the damn tickets, will you?"

She nodded and quickly excused herself. Left alone, Grant looked around his office. He had a full schedule that day, and no will to work. The air in the office seemed oppressive; stifling, even. He tried to check his email, but couldn't focus long enough to read beyond the subject line with any of them.

Not long after Palamas left, Melinda entered unannounced. She didn't say anything, didn't even greet him hello, so Grant spoke first.

"It's under control." he said.

She didn't look convinced. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed into a straight, thin white line as she took a seat across from him.

"I worry what you might mean by that," she said, finally speaking.

"It's a long story."

She crossed her legs, crossed her arms, and leaned back in her chair, becoming a picture of intimidation. All the while, she kept her gaze level on him. He nearly felt like a kid again when she glared at him like that.

"I like long stories." she replied.

"You won't like this one."

"Try me." That somehow managed to sound like both a challenge and a threat.

He sighed and pressed his nose between his forefinger and thumb. He didn't want to do this with Melinda. He had enough on his plate.

He also knew he couldn't very well kick his stepmother out of his office when she was determined to get answers. She may not make a scene if he tried, but she'd never forgive him. Given that the list of people who cared about him was already small and sure to shrink by one in the next twenty-four hours, he didn't want to alienate her.

"Things have progressed with Jemma," he began. "We've bonded… been confiding in each other. I've said… a lot of things… I told her I was thinking about getting away, going to Paris."

"You did?"

"Yes. She thinks it's a great idea."

"And she believed you."

Leave it to Melinda to see through all artifice. "More than that. I think she'll go with me if I ask."

"How can you be sure?"

"I just am." And now came the worst of his confession, where Grant bared his plan entirely. His stomach roiled even as the words tumbled from his lips. "So here's how things will go. Jemma will go to Paris with me. Fitz will marry Skye. I'll come back from Paris to sign the papers. The merger will close. We'll make a lot of money. And you can take a trip to St. Barts, or wherever the upper crust vacations these days."

Melinda was unconcerned with what she stood to gain. "What happens to Jemma?" she asked. Her strong sense of morality was an admirable quality, if inconvenient to Grant in this particular moment.

"She grows up." It was as simple as that.

"You're going to ditch her?"

"What choice do I have? How did you think this was going to happen, Melinda? What do you think I meant when I said I'd take care of the problem? Were you hoping for a sweet and simple solution?" He scoffed. "You and I both know there is no such thing in this business."

"Jemma is not a business decision."

"Everything is a business decision. My whole life is a series of business decisions. Ever since I was nineteen years old." He looked square at her. "In all those years, you've never once seen the face of a person the day after we've taken over their business. You're out celebrating, or at the trainer, or whatever. But I'm there, and I can promise you it's never easy. It is always painful."

"But Jemma… I don't want her to be unhappy."

"She won't be." To the best of his ability, he would ensure that. "She'll be in Paris." He'd even venture to say she belonged in Paris. She didn't belong above the garage, living in the shadow of the Ward mansion, on the fringe of the glitz and glamor of their world. And she certainly didn't belong with him, no matter how Grant may have wished to the contrary.

It was Melinda's turn to sigh. Her face was no longer hardened, but her eyes were downcast, her expression sad. "I feel terrible."

"It's business, Melinda." he repeated. "And you and Dad taught me everything I know."

She rose to leave. He thought she would go without another word. Only when she got to the door did she turn to add, in the most disappointed tone he'd ever heard, "We didn't teach you this."

ooooooooooooooooo

Jemma had hardly slept the night before. This was easily the most conflicted she'd ever been in her life, and pondering the last few days had kept her awake. Every time she tried to close her eyes, some memory or another would bubble to the surface of her consciousness; the feel of Grant's hands, the sound of his laugh, the way his dimples showed themselves when he smiled. Her stomach would feel like it flipped inside her body, she would roll in her bed, and sleep would continue to elude her.

Dawn was peeking through the curtains when she finally managed to catch a wink. When she arose only a handful of hours later, Phil was long gone for the day. That was convenient because she knew if she faced him, he would have questions, and she did not yet have any answers to give him.

She made herself a late breakfast. She must not have been paying close enough attention, because when she sat at the kitchen table with her plate, she noticed the scrambled eggs were rather underdone. It reminded her of what an old chef had told her in France. "A woman happily in love burns the souffle."

She didn't know what runny eggs meant, but it was probably not good.

She decided to ignore the eggs, ate her toast, and drank her tea. She had no plans, nothing on her agenda, no tasks assigned to her but the glaringly obvious one pertaining to her personal life; and that, she was determined to put off for as long as she could.

"As long as she could" was still not as long as she would have preferred. Just as Jemma drank the last of her tea, her phone rang.

"Good morning," the person on the other line said when she answered, and she was embarrassed by how her heart leapt in her chest at the sound of his voice.

"Grant. Good morning." she replied, hoping she sounded more calm than she felt.

"Any chance you're coming into the city today?"

"Today?" She hadn't planned on it, and said as much.

"Well, do you mind coming anyway? I'll send a car for you." She didn't respond, and he barreled on with an explanation, even though she hadn't asked for one. "I don't have a reason to ask you to come. I just want to see you. I… I miss you. Is that okay?"

"You're asking me if it's okay?"

"Yes."

She wanted to say yes, but she was hesitant. She also wanted to ask what he meant by "okay". What did he want to know was okay? That he wanted to see her? Or that he missed her?

Everything was happening so fast. They'd been practically strangers just days ago, and now he was calling her on her cell phone, asking to see her. Saying he missed her.

"Okay." she said. She could hardly say no. Besides, even though it had only been twelve or so hours since she last saw him, she sort of missed him, too.

She got ready in a rush, foregoing the heels and black pants of the day before and choosing instead a large beige sweater from her pre-Paris days. Martine had hated the sweater. Angeline had too, but she recognized it as a comfort item of Jemma's, and so made a point to not critique it too harshly. She _did_ teach her how to dress it up, though, and Jemma employed those lessons now, rolling the sleeves into a cuff halfway up her forearms, slipping into her tightest dark-washed jeans, and putting on a pair of flat black booties. She only put on a little makeup, but did dab perfume on her wrists and behind her ears. The final touch was the lone accessory; the dainty diamond pendant her uncle had loaned her the night of Melinda's birthday party. She put it on and regarded it as a sort of good luck charm; Lord knew she needed all the luck she could get.

ooooooooooooooooo

The car dropped her off right in front of the Highware office building. Jemma waited until it had pulled away to take off in the other direction. She would go see him. She just needed more time.

She walked mindlessly, letting her feet carry her wherever they wanted, until she found herself in front of the diner they'd been to the day before. She wasn't hungry (she blamed that on nerves), but she still went inside and took a seat at the bar on an old stool.

The waitress from the day before -Nora, so said her nametag- offered her coffee, which she was glad to accept.

"Where's your fella?" Nora asked as she poured the dark brew into a large white ceramic cup.

Jemma was surprised. "You remember us?" She tried not to dwell on the fact she had just referred to Grant and herself as an "us".

Nora grinned. "Guy as cute as him, woman as pretty as you? You tend to remember folks like that." She put a dish of tiny creamer cups and a container of sugar packets next to the cup. "How long have you been a couple?"

"Oh, we're not- he's not…" After several false starts, she sighed and said, half to Nora, half to her coffee, "It's a little complicated."

"Doesn't surprise me," Nora said. "He's a person, you're a person… we're complicated by nature."

An offer for apple pie was made, which Jemma also accepted, even though she only picked at it with her fork.

"Something on your mind?" Nora asked when she refreshed her coffee some time later.

She nodded. There was no point pretending otherwise. "Have you ever been scared of a good thing?" She asked.

The older woman seemed to think about it. "I was terrified the night before my wedding day, even though I loved my husband." She set the coffee pot aside. "I think it's not the good thing that scares you, but the not-knowing. Anytime a good thing comes your way, it creates a new norm, and that can be a lot to take in; not the getting the good thing, but the growing to make room for it."

It wasn't quite the answer Jemma was expecting, but she was grateful for it nonetheless. "I thought I had everything figured out." she whispered.

Nora patted her hand kindly. "Well, you know what they say about making God laugh."

"What's that?"

"If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans."

ooooooooooooooooo

It was later that day - much, much later, long after coffee and pie and Nora's wise words- that Jemma walked into Grant's office. Kara had scolded her politely when she arrived, saying that Mr. Ward had been expecting her much earlier, but that she would send her right in.

He was standing at the window when she entered, and turned when her heard her walk his way. She noticed he wore no tie, and the stubble of yesterday had grown in even more.

"I was beginning to worry." Grant said, and she was relieved he spoke first. It removed a little of the pressure she felt, but only a little.

She now felt pressed to explain. "I've been walking around Manhattan all afternoon. I must have circled your building six or seven times, just trying to work up the courage to come here… to see you."

"Courage?" He repeated the word, his voice colored with disbelief. "Surely you're not scared of me anymore."

"No. No, not of you." She closed the gap between them. If she couldn't be bold with her words (and great, she was stumbling over them already), she could at least be bold with her actions. "I guess I just… well, I have more questions than I do answers at the moment… but maybe I'll have answers soon… or maybe I'll have more questions, I don't know."

"Jemma," Grant said gently.

"Yes?" She looked up at him, and her eyes were so trusting it made a lump form in his throat.

"I want you to come to Paris." he said, after a moment's pause.

She blinked. "You mean, go to Paris?"

"No, _come_ to Paris. With me. You've convinced me that there are things missing from my life."

"Like what?"

"Like a life."

He raised his hand to cup her cheek, brushing a lock of her brunette hair away from her face. Her hazel eyes widened, her porcelain skin turning pink as she turned her face up towards him, expectantly.

The kiss was soft and gentle, just her lips against his, but not without passion. There was no battle for dominance, nothing sloppy and heated, but he felt as if his lungs were robbed of all oxygen. For all that their lips did not do, he still noticed that she'd pressed herself against him, with one hand around his neck and the other over his heart. Her body, like her mouth, was all soft and warm curves. He felt like he could melt into her and they would would still not be close enough for him.

"Don't say no," he whispered against her lips when the kiss broke an undetermined amount of time later. Had it been minutes? Hours? The concept of time seemed fluid when her mouth was on his.

Two rapid raps on the door were followed by Palamas entering the room, finding them still entangled. "I did knock," she said drily as she placed two envelopes on his desk. "Here are your tickets, and the other things are being taken care of." Then she saw herself out.

The mood had broken. Grant let go first. Jemma let her arms slide off his neck and down his chest before letting them come to rest at her side.

"I don't understand what happened." she began, sounding breathless. "I hardly know you."

"That's not true. You know me better than anyone."

"I wasn't even interested in you."

"Ouch."

"I wanted Fitz so much, I had to get away. And I did! I went to Paris!" She was laughing, he realized, at herself. "And I cut my stupid hair and I wrote in my stupid journal, and I came back stupider than ever. Trust the universe to reveal me as a fool the moment I think I've figured things out. Oh, Grant!" She threw her arms around his neck again, kissing his cheek. He felt warm where she kissed him and realized she was crying joyful tears. "I'm so, so happy." She held him tighter. "You have made me so happy. Happier than I even knew I could be."

She must have sensed the shift; felt him grow stiff and motionless in her arms, or something. Before he truly realized what he was doing, Grant was shrugging off her arms and telling Jemma in a low voice, "I can't do this." Of course, she didn't understand. He was obliged to explain. Every word that followed filled him with self-loathing. "You were right in the solarium. Everything I did, everything I said… I was sent to deal with you. I sent myself."

"I don't believe you." But he could tell by the way she regarded him, all the love in her eyes gone, that yes, she did.

"There was a merger. A marriage. You got in the way. The plan was to take you to Paris, then leave. I'm sorry." He kept his voice as even and emotionless as possible, but not because he was trying to be cold. Grant was ashamed to admit he was holding back tears. Not from any inflated sense of masculinity, but he refused to let himself cry when he was the one doing the hurting. He didn't get to do that.

Jemma, for her part, was not openly crying, but her eyes were beginning to shine with new tears. She looked at him now with a level gaze of disappointment. He hated it. He would rather she hated him.

"What else is there?" she asked quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"Kara said the other things were taken care of. What other things?"

"Oh…" He knew that, no matter how well she took his honesty, what he offered next would infuriate her for sure. "There's an apartment for you in France. A bank account. And a slot in the masters of biology program at the Pierre and Marie Curie University."

"With the exception of the university, you describe a kept woman." Her voice betrayed her disdain.

"It's not like that." Even if that's exactly what it looked like.

"Was I really so bad for Fitz? So wrong? A chauffeur's niece?"

"You've never been just the chauffeur's niece."

"And you really must think I'm a fool if you think I'd believe that."

"No." He was insistent now. "You're not a fool. You're not a fool. I'm a liar."

"You're right. You're a liar. And you're the fool." The tears that had been threatening to spill over her lashes did so now, streaking down her face. He wanted to wipe them away, but he held his hands steady at his side. He didn't get to comfort her. He'd forfeited that right, if ever it was his. "If you'd just asked me, Grant… God, if you'd just talked to me." She turned away from him, walking towards his desk. With her back facing him, she reached for the envelope with her name on it. "May I?" He didn't answer, so she took his silence as a yes. "Paris is always a good idea. I was happy there." She turned around, looked at him with her eyes gleaming, her face tear-streaked, and still managed a small smile. "You would have been happy, too."

"Let me drive you home." he offered quickly, even though he knew she'd refuse. Offering was the least he could do after asking her to come to the city just so he could break her heart.

She shook her head. "No, thank you." She looked down at the envelope, then back up at him. "I'm flying home."

A/N: I'M SORRY. Depending on how you guys respond, I might try to get the final chapter out sooner than next Saturday so you're not left hanging for too long.


	11. Chapter 11: The Most Beautiful Beginning

A/N: The Concorde supersonic jet fleet was retired in 2003, but for the sake of this story, let's pretend that never happened. Ok? :)

It was after dark when Jemma's taxi pulled into the curved driveway of the Ward mansion, but still early enough that most of the house was lit up. She could see a few of the maids -people she'd known since adolescence- through the windows, bustling about with preparations for the night and the following morning. She heard distant yapping as Rose, the head maid, leashed up Melinda's puppy for a walk. In the lowest level of the house, not far from the indoor pool, she could see Fitz in the game room.

She decided to go there first.

He was at the billiards table when she entered, circling it with only the smallest hitch in his step.

"You look better." she said.

He smiled to see her. "I _am_ better. Doc says the stitches can come out tomorrow, and not a moment too soon." He lined up a shot, hitting the cue ball expertly before finishing his thought. "Skye is getting too much fun out of me having to sit on a hemorrhoid pillow."

She laughed. "Yes, I can imagine that's a sight… but she's a good woman, your fiancee."

"I'm glad you think so. I do, too."

"I hope you'll give her my apologies when you tell her I won't be in the wedding."

Fitz set his cue stick aside. His smile had vanished, but he didn't seem serious yet. Just curious. "You won't be?"

She shook her head, but tried very hard to smile. It wasn't easy. "Turns out I've won a ticket to Paris. I leave tomorrow."

Jemma would never know what inkling or instinct made Fitz ask his next question, but all he said in response was, "One way?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." If ever she left Europe, she would never step foot on the grounds of the Ward estate again. She was certain of that.

"I think I knew that." He walked to the mini fridge in the corner and withdrew two beers. He removed the caps and handed her one. "I know it's not champagne, but you're leaving and I still owe you a drink."

She took the bottle from him. "I thought you were giving up on glass." she said and tapped the glass neck of the bottle for emphasis.

"I'll make an exception for an old friend." He clinked his bottle against hers. "Are you traveling alone?"

A lump formed in her throat, so she nodded soundlessly and hurried to take a sip of her beer.

For the first time since she'd come to see him, Fitz looked sad. "Will you be all right?" he asked.

She forced another smile, but tears threatened the corners of her eyes. She prayed he did not notice them. "Better than all right. I'll be in Paris."

ooooooooooooooooo

Phil wasn't shocked when Jemma came home and announced she'd be leaving the following day. He wasn't shocked, but he was still saddened, and watched with a heavy heart as she packed.

Not that there was much to pack… she'd only been home a handful of days.

"What will you do?" he asked as she folded her clothes neatly and placed them back into her large black suitcase.

"I don't know." she said, and he nearly commended her for how even she managed to keep her voice when she said that. She didn't sound afraid. It took a minute for him to consider that she didn't _sound_ afraid because she wasn't. She was so different from the Jemma he had sent off to Paris a year ago; he was only just beginning to see it.

"You really are going home, aren't you?" he whispered.

Jemma smiled at him. "There's still time for you to come with."

"No, Paris isn't for me." He shot down the idea instantly. "I belong here."

Her face fell. "I don't think anyone belongs here, except the Wards themselves."

He didn't respond to that. Instead, he started in with a story. "When I first came here, I had no expenses. The upkeep of the car, my meals, my boarding… all of that was handled for me, so I got to keep the majority of my paycheck. Wasn't long before I amassed fifteen thousand dollars. I was driving Mr. Ward -the elder- at the time. He never closed the window between us. He transacted a lot of business on the daily commute, and I paid attention. When he bought, I bought. When he sold, I sold."

Jemma laughed at him, blithely. "Uncle Phil, are you really telling me you've hidden a million dollars somewhere?"

"Not at all. It's actually a little over two million."

She wasn't laughing now. Jemma stared at her uncle, and as she did, he stared at her. He had a slight smile on his face as he watched her reaction, his hands firmly in his pockets. He may not have made a sound since dropping such a bombshell, but his eyes were laughing at her. Laughing, but not lying. Phil wasn't kidding about his secret fortune.

"Uncle Phil…" she whispered in disbelief.

"Yes… Two million dollars may have exceeded my expectations a bit. But then, you've always exceeded mine." He walked towards her and took both of her hands in his. "You've rejected my help in the past, but I hope you'll take it now. I want to do this for you, Jemma, but I won't force you to take my help."

She didn't know what to say, so she just nodded and embraced her uncle, holding onto him as tightly as she could. She was anxious to get away from the world of the Ward family, but there was no doubt in her mind that she would miss her uncle terribly.

ooooooooooooooooo

Fitz got his stitches removed first thing the next morning. The second thing he did was drive into the city, screech to a stop in front of the Highware building,and storm into Grant's office.

Kara and Grant were conversing over his desk when he burst in.

"I need to see my stepmother as soon as she gets in," was all Fitz picked up on before the conversation froze and both of them looked his way. One glance at his face -red with anger, his brows low and furrowed over his blazing blue eyes- and Kara saw herself towards the door with half-meant offers of coffee and water before she shut them in the office.

"I got a surprise for you." Grant said as Fitz stalked over to his desk.

He rounded the desk. "That's funny. I have one for you, too."

The Ward boys never got into physical fights. Never in their lives. Grant would have owned him in a match, for one thing, and Fitz preferred to spar verbally instead of physically. But now, with anger surging through him and the advantage of height, towering over his older brother as he sat at his desk, Fitz's fist flew almost of its own accord and landed square on Grant's jaw with a loud _crack_.

"There's really no limit for you, is there? No line you won't cross, nothing sacred?" His hand was aching, but he clenched it at his side and ignored the pain. "How could you do that to me, Grant? To Jemma? What the hell makes you think you have the right to move us around like pawns on a chessboard?"

Grant had been holding his hand up to her jaw, but lowered it when he spoke through gritted teeth. A bruise was already blooming on the left side of his face. "Call it a force of habit." he bit out as he rose to his feet. Now Fitz was on the defensive, expecting a retaliatory blow at any second. His posture betrayed him and Grant rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to hit you. Jesus. Everybody thinks so low of me these days."

"And with good reason." Fitz relaxed, but not much, and his brows remained knitted together.

"Yeah, I know. I screwed everything up." He looked away. "I manipulated Jemma. I confused her." He glanced at Fitz. "But she's loved you all her life. You're what she really wants. Not me." He opened one of his desk drawers and removed a white envelope. "One ticket to Paris. Your assistant has already picked up your passport and packed you a bag. I think she was surprised at having something to do." He forced the envelope into his brother's hand. "Go with her, Fitz. You can make her happy. And…" he added a little reluctantly, "I don't want her to leave here alone."

Fitz looked between the ticket and his brother. "But what about the wedding? And the merger? You'd blow a billion dollar merger for Jemma?" Grant didn't answer. Realization dawned over Fitz. "I see."

He withdrew without another word. As he passed Kara's desk, he said, "Ms. Palamas, I need to see you in my office right away. Also, where is my office?"

ooooooooooooooooo

It was a small send-off for Jemma that day. She'd said her goodbyes to the others at breakfast in the staff quarters, but only Phil and Melinda walked her out to the taxi when it arrived. Melinda held onto her for a long time before she got in the car, and they both stood in the drive and waved goodbye as the car pulled away.

"I'll never understand you, Phil," Melinda said as they waved. "You had that money squirreled away all that time, and you never told me."

"Would it have mattered? Because if it matters, then marry me, Melinda. Marry me for my money."

She shot him a look. "I don't think that's very funny."

"You're right. You don't need my money, and I don't need yours. Marry me for love."

She didn't say yes or no, but from the corner of his eye, Phil saw her smile.

ooooooooooooooooo

"I knew what his instructions were, but given that they were stupid instructions, I am electing to ignore them and ordering you to do the same!" Fitz was on the phone yelling at the Rons. He was a little surprised they had answered his call (since when did _he_ work in the office, one had asked), and even more surprised that they seemed likely to defer to his authority. Rumors of an upset in Highware must have reached the stock market. The numbers weren't exactly plummeting, but there was a marked movement downward that was making him nervous. He wanted to right the course as soon as possible.

He looked up from his computer at the sound of the door opening. It was Skye. She seemed to be, in a word, pissed.

"Rons, I'm gonna have to call you back." Fitz said and quickly hung up. Then, before she got a chance to speak, Fitz walked over to Skye. He took her by the shoulders. "I'm going to tell you a story, and I need you to tell me how it ends."

He let it all come spilling out; everything that had transpired since Jemma returned, Skye soon came to know. He spared no detail, even the ones that risked making him look like a jerk.

Thankfully, Skye was understanding. She didn't accuse him of entertaining infidelity, as his brother and stepmother had done, and she accepted his apology concerning the optics of his encounters with Jemma. She was less gracious to Grant. Fitz only knew some of the specifics, but what little information he had, he gave her.

"Does he love her?" Skye asked when he had finished.

Fitz shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know what my brother looks like when he's in love. But I've never seen him like this."

"And does Jemma love him?"

He was a little more certain of his answer. "I think she does. Or she did."

Skye didn't want to hear anymore. In fact, she didn't _need_ to hear anymore. She may have known Jemma for a grand total of two days, but Skye considered her a friend, and at the moment, her friend was hurting; the one who had hurt her was conveniently located just two doors down.

Without another word, Skye booked it to Grant's office, leaving Fitz to trail behind her, limping a bit as he called on her to slow down. She didn't. She ran all the way, forced herself past Kara and burst into the room, then stomped to Grant's desk and slapped him directly across his stupid face.

"I _liked_ her, you dipshit!" She exclaimed, stamping her foot as she did.

Grant looked to the door to see his brother and stepmother, both drawn by the commotion, no doubt.

"Have you come to hit me, too?" he asked Melinda.

She smirked. "Much as I would like to, no." She motioned Kara inside and shut the door.

"Fitz…" Grant looked at his brother, his heart sinking. "You're still here. I told you to…" he trailed off, not certain how much Skye knew (enough to slap him, apparently, but he'd done quite a lot to earn that over the past few days).

"I know what you 'told me to', but I ignored you. It's a new day, Grant. You're not the boss of me." He was appropriately smug making this declaration.

"I was never the boss of you."

"No, but you were the boss of Highware. I say 'were', because here's the paperwork to transition your power to me." Kara handed him a stack of papers which he shoved Grant's way. Then, a second stack was handed to him directly. "And here's what you sign to complete the merger of Quake Tech with Highware. Oh, and," one single sheet of paper slid across his desk, "sign this. It's a little well-deserved raise for me, for assuming your position." He turned to Kara. "Is he packed?"

"Is _who_ packed?" Grant asked.

"You are. Just one bag." Kara presented him with a small duffle.

"You went to my _house?"_

"I took her." Melinda defended.

"We were up to our elbows in your underwear drawer. It was like touching the shroud of Turin." At this comment, Skye guffawed, hiding the laugh behind her hand.

Grant glanced through the contracts, then at the duffle bag. "This is a mutiny!"

"Don't be silly. This is an intervention." Melinda said, and presented a plane ticket. "There's a car waiting for you downstairs, a helicopter on east 60th. The ticket has been changed to the Concorde. It leaves in exactly 39 minutes."

"If you go now, you just might beat her there." Fitz interjected.

When he made no move, Skye tried to yank him to his feet. "Go, Grant! Don't think. Just go!"

He hesitated. "She must hate me." he said.

"She'll get over it." Melinda said simply. "We all do."

Grant looked over at his stepmother, the one he _usually_ could count on to be a voice of reason. "You expect me to just drop everything and waltz out of here?"

"Waltzing would be ineffective. We'd prefer if you ran." Fitz teased.

When he still made no move toward the door, Melinda spoke again. "Grant, I love you. No mother could be more proud, but I think it's time you left the nest."

He only considered his choices for another few seconds before grabbing a pen and signing the papers. As he walked toward the door, he spouted some final instructions for Fitz.

"The merger will accumulate a large debt burden. Look at restructuring. Review both companies last quarter performances." As he got to the door, Palamas was holding out his jacket for him. He took it from her and, stunning them both, gave her a hug. Then, turning to Fitz, he added, "And Kara is taking a vacation next month. She knows to bill me." He shrugged into his jacket, slung his duffle over his shoulder, and looked around the office one more time. The emotions he felt were without name, a combination of fear, grief, excitement, and awe that simmered inside him. "If you'll excuse me," he said to his family, "It appears I have a plane to catch."

ooooooooooooooooo

"There's a car waiting for you downstairs", Melinda had said. Yes, there was, but what she had neglected to mention was it was driven by Phil Coulson. Phil, who had every reason to hate Grant and other than his loyalty to Melinda, no reason to do more than the bare minimum to get him to the airport on time.

Phil managed to keep professional, but he did not greet Grant with the enthusiasm he had become accustomed to. He only acknowledged him coolly and held the door open for him. He left the screen down as he drove, and every once in a while, Grant caught his narrowed eyes glaring at him through the rearview mirror.

"Go ahead," Grant said when the tension got to be too much for him to take. "Say it."

Without further prompting, Phil said simply, "You don't deserve her."

Well. There it was. He couldn't be mad about it; he _did_ tell him to say it. Besides, Phil hadn't said anything Grant didn't already know.

"I know." he answered. "But I need her. And I've never needed anything before."

Phil didn't answer. Some time passed, but the car barely moved. Traffic ahead of them was nearly at a standstill.

"You're going to have to run for it." Phil finally said and came around to open the door for him. He grabbed Grant firmly by his arm before the younger man could walk away. "I don't like what you did. I know why you did it, but you hurt my little girl. I may never forgive you."

"I don't blame you."

"But if you can make her happy, and she can forgive you and she wants you, I won't stand in the way." He handed him the duffle bag. "She's staying at L'Hotel. 13 Rue des Beaux Arts."

Phil withheld his blessing, but Grant wasn't expecting one. The fact that Phil hadn't hogtied him and stuffed him in the trunk was already better than Grant deserved from him.

He took off at a run towards 60th Street and arrived, out of breath and sweating, to find the helicopter ready for him. It was a short flight to the airport from there, where he again had to run through the terminal to make it to his gate just as they let out the final call for boarding.

"First time on the Concorde, Mr. Ward?" the desk clerk asked as she scanned his ticket.

"Yes."

"But surely not your first time in Paris."

"It's my first everything."

ooooooooooooooooo

It was the wee hours of the morning when Jemma's plane landed. She had not slept. She was hungry. She was hurting. All things the driver seemed to sense, judging by how often he checked on her in the rearview mirror. He offered to carry her bags into the lobby of L'hotel, but she declined, and pressed her fare and a large tip into his hand before waving him off. She looked up at the building, knowing she was tired and should rest, but reluctant to check-in, to walk into a quiet, unfamiliar room. To be truly alone.

As she hesitated, a man entered her field of vision. She didn't recognize him at first. The posture was all wrong, the face unshaven, the shirt unkempt. It took her a few seconds to recognize the man as Grant Ward, and her heart flipped inside her. What did he mean by coming here, she wondered. What could he possibly have left to say?

"You said that Paris is always a good idea." he began. "That I would've been happy here. You couldn't have meant without you."

Her grip around her suitcase tightened. Hearing her words on his lips made her feel… she didn't know what. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"How did you know where I'd be?" she asked.

"Your uncle told me. I don't think he's forgiven me."

"No, I imagine he hasn't."

"I told him I need you."

She blinked. A lump formed in her throat. "I thought that was all a lie."

Grant sighed. It was a sound filled with regret; with remorse. "It was a lie." He took another step forward, closing the gap between them even more. He was mindful not to get too close, she noticed. Most likely, he was afraid of spooking her. "It was a lie. And then it was a dream. And then it was real. Jemma. It was real."

She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe him so badly, but how could she when he'd only the day before so unceremoniously broken her heart? "How do I know you're not lying now?"

"Because I'm not. I promise you. I'll never lie to you again. My word is my bond. I know that doesn't mean much to you, or to matters of the heart… but in business-"

"- I swear to God, if you bring up business right now…" She didn't need to finish the threat.

Grant understood. "I came to you under false pretenses. I won't deny that. But I won't stand here and pretend that you haven't had an effect on me since the day you came back to the mansion. You've been a better influence on me as a person than I've had in years."

She snorted derisively. "I'm not going to be your savior, Grant."

"No. I don't want you to be. I don't want you to save me, Jemma. I want you to love me."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I love you."

Even though she didn't trust him or his words, Jemma understood there was weight to them. Grant didn't seem the type to throw those words about glibly. She wondered if he'd said them to another woman ever before.

"I don't know if I believe you." she whispered.

"I know." He closed the small gap that remained between them. He was close enough to touch, and oh, she was so tempted to. One of her hands raised to smooth the collar of his untidy white shirt. "I'll spend the rest of my life getting you to believe me, if you'll let me."

Her hand stilled over his heart. "That almost sounded like-"

"It was. Or, it is. If you want it to be."

Tears sprang to her eyes. "Grant…"

"I've been following in footsteps all of my life, Jemma Coulson. I've never been impulsive. And just today, I've flown halfway across the world for you. To tell you I'm sorry. To beg your forgiveness. And to tell you I love you." He put his hand over hers. "I've said my piece. I won't force you to be mine, not if you don't want me, too."

"You are still a fool." she said, but there was no malice in her scolding.

"I'm afraid that's a fixed trait."

"If you'd only talked to me, you would've realized I felt the same way."

"We've already established that I'm a fool."

"Yes. You are." For the first time in their exchange, Jemma smiled. "You are a damn fool, impulsive… and I don't think I've ever loved anyone more than I love you."

She kissed him softly, her hand still over his heart, silently treasuring each beat of Grant's pulse beneath her palm. It was hardly a happy ending, and despite the Parisian background, far from perfect and picturesque. Life was not, nor would it ever be, a fairy tale. They were too complex, their history already too interwoven for it to be easy. Loving each other would be simple, but keeping each other would be the hardest work of their lives. She wouldn't have traded it for all the money in the world.

For all that this moment was not, there was one thing it was, and this outweighed all the others: it was the most beautiful beginning.

A/N: And just like that, it's over! I hope you all have enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I appreciate every review/kudo/message/etc. I've received about this story. The feedback has been so wonderful. I'm so grateful to everyone who stuck it out and waited for this story to be finished. Special thanks to Daisy/stargazerdaisy who gave valuable input during the early stages of this fic and beta'd the first few chapters. You're an angel!

I hope this ending made you all happy! It was so fun to write. I'd love to hear what you think! If you want to come chat about this story or biospecialist or anything really, you can find me on tumblr: in-the-moving-castle dot tumblr dot com


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